


Moats and Boats and Waterfalls

by blueink3



Series: Moats and Boats'verse [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Charming, Daddy!Charming, F/M, Family, Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Mentions of past child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home. The word is given new meaning for five-year-old Emma when she's dropped off with her new foster parent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has already made the rounds on FF.net but I'm trying to move all of my writing onto the archive. Those of you who might have read this before, there might be some tweaks and changes - all for the better I hope. Please let me know your thoughts! xx

Julia Gordon hates her job. 

She’s been a social worker for the past five years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, attempting to find a home for children who’ve never had a proper one. She always wonders if the driveway she’s pulling into belongs to the good sort or the bad sort. She likes to think she has a sixth sense about these things, but she’s been proven wrong before. The loveliest of foster parents upon first meeting can turn out to be the most ruthless the minute the door is shut behind her. 

She glances in the rearview mirror, observing the little girl in the backseat as she stares at the passing scenery.

“Almost there,” she says, just to fill the silence.

The little girl doesn’t respond; just continues to stare at the woods beyond the window.

In her six short years, the child has seen more than her fair share of the bad sort. More than any child should. Five years on the job and Julia has handled her case for three of them. She thought that surely the last couple would be _the_ couple, but two months later and the little girl was back in her office with bruises up and down her arms.

She truly thought she had exhausted the rather lengthy list of potentials when it came to this case, but lo and behold, another file made its way across her desk.

“It’s near the water. You can feed the ducks.”

Blue eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror, but still, the girl remains silent.

Julia pushes her glasses further up on her nose and squints as she passes another road sign. Ten more miles. 

She listens as the little feet tap out a rhythm on the back of the passenger side seat and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face. She’s going to miss the girl. But for her own sake, Julia hopes her file doesn’t come across her desk again. 

Emma Swan deserves her happy ending. Perhaps more than any child she’s ever worked with.

Julia holds her breath as she finally passes the town line, praying to any god listening that the girl with the blue eyes and blonde curls will find peace here.

Light rain begins to patter the windshield as she turns onto Main St. and Julia glances at the piece of paper in her lap, reading the directions off once more.

The town is cute, if a little run down. She doesn’t see many children, but perhaps they’re in school. It is a Tuesday, after all.

She makes a left and then a right, pausing at a stop sign to glance at the large homes lining either side of the street. The houses get smaller the further they drive, but finally…

_212… 214…_

“Ah, 216. We’re here,” she announces as she pulls the car against the curb in front of a decently sized two-story home. It’s white with blue trim and the lawn is freshly mowed, so at least they know how to take care of _some_ things.

“Come on, Emma, grab your blanket.”

“Yes, Miss Gordon,” the girl mumbles as she unstraps her seatbelt and hugs the white wool close to her chest.

They’ve been through his too many times. Julia knows it and, if the way the girl is looking up at the house with trepidation is any clue, Emma knows it too.

Julia grabs the small bag from the trunk, the entirety of Emma’s possessions, and holds out her hand for the little girl to take.

“Miss Gordon,” Emma tugs her to a stop in the middle of the walkway. “If they don’t want me – ”

“Sweetheart, they want you," she assures. "They _asked_ for you.”

“But if they don’t," the girl repeats stubbornly, if shakily, "can I… can I come live with you?”

It takes all of a moment for Julia’s heart to split in two, as she bends down eye-level with the child, taking both of her hands in hers.

“You can’t, Emma. I’m sorry, but you know I’m not allowed.” The thought had certainly crossed her mind before – somewhere between the third and fourth time Emma ended up in the hospital and her foster fathers ended up in court. But she cannot be a social worker _and_ a foster parent at the same time. Her boss had told her so on more than one occasion when she came to plead Emma’s case.

The brief flicker of hope fades from the girl’s face and Julia taps her chin, gently making her gaze meet hers.

“You have my number. Keep it safe. And if anything happens, anything at all, you call me and I’ll drop everything and come get you.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Emma nods and Julia takes her hand once more, leading them up the steps to the porch. She rings the bell, its noise shrill yet short, and heavy footfalls echo in the hall a moment before the door swings open. 

“Hi,” the young man standing on the other side says, smiling wide at Julia first and Emma second. His gaze lingers on the child, his expression soft, and if Julia’s gut reaction is anything to go by (and it usually is), she’s leaving the girl in capable hands.

“Mr. Nolan?" 

“David, please,” he responds, holding out his hand to shake, which Julia takes. He meets her eyes for all of a moment before focusing entirely on the little girl pressed into her side. “And you must be Emma."  

Emma slowly nods her head, her eyes fixated on her shoes.

“She’s a little shy,” Julia offers and David smiles, if a little sadly. 

“Completely understandable. Come on in – Let me get that.” He takes the small bag from her hand and places it by the staircase, before ushering them into the pale yellow living room.

“Will Mrs. Nolan be joining us?”

His expression goes tight and immediately Julia’s hackles are up.

“There’s been a slight change in plan…” he begins and Julia’s heart drops into her stomach.

_Please no. Please don’t do this to her now._

“My wife… she’s… well.” He spares a glance towards Emma, but the girl seems thoroughly preoccupied with picking lint off of her blanket. “We’re separating." 

The air leaves Julia’s lungs in a _whoosh_ and David must note the panicked look on her face because he immediately steps forward, arms raised in what he probably hopes is reassurance.

“I still want her.”

And it’s those four words that bring Emma’s gaze to the man standing before them. It’s those four words that make her cock her head and study him, as if _really_ seeing him for the first time.

“I’m not sure how this works – I don’t know if you allow single foster parents, but if she’ll have me, I want her.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, gaze darting from social worker to child.

“You want me?” comes the quiet voice, blue eyes wide with long lost hope.

“I do. More than anything,” he replies. “If you’ll have me.”

And suddenly, Julia finds two pairs of blue eyes silently pleading for her to say ‘yes,’ and something inside her, that sometimes-faulty gut reaction is telling her that these two belong together. They even look alike, with their blonde hair and stubborn expressions.

“Can I stay, Miss Gordon?”

She sighs heavily and raises an eyebrow at the child, before turning to David and finding him already smiling. 

“You’ll need to redo a few forms. Take your wife’s name off of them.”

“I’ll fill out as many forms as you need me to.”

She wants to be annoyed – he could have _called_ – but Emma is actually _smiling_ and the sight of happiness on that child’s face makes any extra paperwork seem entirely insignificant. She pulls a folder and a pen from her briefcase and hands them to David Nolan with what she hopes is a threatening glance. And he smiles a charming smile that seems to reply, _I know you’re not happy, but I will prove you wrong._

He fills them out at the kitchen table, just after he offers Emma some juice and animal crackers. He offers them to Julia as well, but she politely declines with an amused smile.

With forms signed and sealed, and sugary elephants all consumed, David leads them upstairs under the pretext of putting Emma’s suitcase in her room, but really allowing Julia time to examine the place. Her boss had interviewed the Nolans and told her of the charming home, but Julia wanted proof herself, which David was more than willing to provide.

“Just in here…” he says as he bumps a door open revealing a bedroom with pale green wallpaper and a single bed pressed up against the wall. The bed has two sets of bedding on top of it, along with a couple of stuffed animals and a small bedside light. 

Julia nearly gasps at the preparation. At the _thought_ that went into Emma’s arrival. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want pink or purple, so I got both and we can return whichever one you don’t want,” he explains as Emma wanders into the room, as if in a trance.  

She glances at the choices and Julia sees tears pooling in the girl’s eyes. But before she can even ask if she’s okay, David is kneeling down in front of her and gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

“Hey, hey. If you don’t like either, we can easily remedy that. It’s okay.”

Emma remains silent, continuing to stare at the bedding and David glances up at Julia, thoroughly confused. Julia clears her throat and gestures to the room.

“She’s not used to this.”

“This…?" he prompts.

“Generosity,” is the word she settles on and David’s forehead immediately creases in understanding. He looks pained as he stares at the child, who now refuses to meet his gaze.

“Tell you what. How about you and I go to the store tomorrow, and you can pick out whichever color you want. Sound good?”

Emma slowly brings her gaze from his boots to his eyes, a question lingering on the tiny tongue that peeks out in between her lips. “Is blue okay?”

David laughs. “Blue’s perfect.”

“It’s not girly, though.”

He places a hand on her head, brushing her curls away from her face. “Any girl who likes blue is my kinda girl.”

They finish the tour; the house is clean save for the pile of clothes on the chair in his bedroom, which is pretty impressive for a recently separated man, she thinks. They shake hands again, and she offers him her card. It’s the same card that Emma has hidden away in her backpack in case of emergencies, but Julia knows it probably won’t get much use. 

The little girl’s arms wrap around her waist and Julia breaks all sorts of protocol as she bends down and places a kiss on her head.

“Be good for Mr. Nolan.”

“I will,” she replies, pulling away with a smile. 

The girl’s smiled more in the last five minutes than she has in the last three years. It makes Julia both elated and a little bit sad.

And as she drives away, she actually looks in the rearview mirror because, for the first time in a long time, she has a feeling she won’t be back.


	2. Introductions

This might have been a huge mistake.

There is a child sitting in his kitchen, adorably swinging her legs back and forth in a chair that is entirely too big for her, and he has absolutely no idea what to do with her.

David rubs his forehead as he stares at her from the living room, heart both overwhelmingly full and incredibly panicked at the sight of her. This would have been easier with Kathryn, with someone to remind him of the basics like when bedtime is and that children shouldn't play with sharp objects, but he knows that’s a road he can’t go down. He wanted this more than she did. She chose to go and he didn’t stop her. Truth be told, it was an inevitability; one that he has since come to accept. 

If forced to choose between the woman in the picture over the mantle and the little girl at his dining room table, he’d go with the little girl. 

“Mr. Nolan, can we go feed the ducks? Miss Gordon said there are ducks.” She looks at him with such hope and _oh boy_ there’s no way he can refuse that face.

Ducks. Ducks are good.

“Sure, we can feed the ducks. Come on, let’s get your coat.”

She hops down from the chair and hurries into the living room, pulling her coat on with such haste that she gets tangled up in the sleeves.

“Hold on, hold on,” he chuckles as he crouches down and attempts to free her.

“I got stuck.”

“You did."  

“I’m sorry.”

He pauses, frowning. “You don’t have to apologize. I get stuck, too.”

“You do?” Her voice is so quiet, so unsure, and he realizes in that moment that she’s actually frightened.

“Of course I do. I got caught in my sheets getting out of bed this morning. And you know what happened?” he asks as he taps her nose, attempting to ignore the block of cement that's settled in his stomach. 

“What?”

“I fell flat on the floor.” Peels of laughter spill out of her and David grins at his victory, the knot easing slightly. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Nolan, you know.”

“No?”

“You can call me David.”

Her lips move around the word, silently trying it out. “Okay. David.”

“Okay. Let’s go see some ducks.”

He stands and moves towards the door, but not before her tiny hand slides into his. He stops dead, breath catching in his throat, as he gently takes hold of her little palm, marveling at how it disappears in his.

And suddenly it’s not so scary, the thought of this five-year-old girl in his life.

xxxxxx

Granny’s is their first stop, though, when David thinks to ask if she’s eaten lunch and she shakes her head.

“They’ve got great grilled cheese. Do you like grilled cheese?”

“What’s grilled cheese?” she responds and David consciously has to keep his jaw from dropping and his anger from spiking.

“Well, I’ll get you one and you’ll see. It’s yummy.”

She nods and he has to remember that her little legs can’t keep up with his. It’s the tiny adjustments he makes to accommodate this new person in his life. He keeps her hand tight within his, minding the streetlights even if it’s his inclination to jaywalk, and pointing out the rather sparse sights that Storybrooke has to offer. 

“And that’s where I work. The animal shelter.”

“You work with animals?” Her eyes go wide as she looks at the dog and cat depicted on the sign that honestly needs a new coat of paint. Still. She’s staring at it as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“I do. I take care of them: feed them, walk them. Keep them company. You can come with me one day… If you’d like.”

Her gaze finds him then, and yes, he’s pretty positive he’d commit murder if those blue eyes asked him to. He was done for the moment she stepped foot on his front porch.

He clears his throat, finding it suddenly oddly tight, and points across the street towards the neon sign. “And that… is Granny’s. She’s gonna love you.”

“Is she your Grandma?”

He laughs and gently runs a hand over her head. “She likes to think so, but no. That's just what everyone calls her.”

“Oh,” she says in a tone that says she doesn’t quite understand, but she’s willing to roll with it.

The bell over the door jingles as he enters, holding it open with one hand and guiding Emma in with the other. The diner seems to stop as every patron stares at them and David shifts uncomfortably under their judgment. They really shouldn’t be surprised – word had traveled fast that the Nolans were taking in a foster child – but perhaps most people assumed the plans had fallen through when word also made its way around that the Nolans were no longer “The Nolans.” 

“Good afternoon to you all, too,” he wryly responds. There aren’t many: Leroy, Dr. Hopper, a few of the dockworkers, Graham, and obviously Ruby and Granny. But their gaze is heavy as Emma presses slightly closer to his leg. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, the endearment falling easily from his tongue as Granny comes bustling over from behind the counter, all smiles and warm embraces. He knew he could count on her.

“This must be Emma.”

Emma presses even closer to his leg, gripping his hand with all her little might, as she eyes Granny warily.

“Emma, this is Granny. And she makes the best grilled cheese this side of the Mississippi.” He turns his attention to Granny and explains, “She’s never had one.”

And Granny (god love her) faux gasps and immediately bends down so she’s practically nose-to-nose with the little girl. 

“Then I’ll make yours extra special.”

Her warm presence coaxes a smile from the little girl and Granny ushers them both to a booth, her hand lingering a little longer on David’s shoulder than normal. He gathers strength from the silent show of support.

Archie waves and David returns the gesture, smiling widely as Graham sidles up to his table.

“So this must be the famous Emma Swan.” 

“I’m not famous,” she quickly says, as if admitting anything to the contrary would get her into some kind of trouble.

“Around here you are,” Graham replies. He holds his hand out and David watches as her eyes flick from his hand to his badge to his face and back again. He’s about to say _she’s a little shy_ – the same words Julia Gordon had whispered to him – but before he can get the first syllable out, she’s taking Graham’s hand and allowing him to gently shake it up and down. “Nice to meet you, Miss Swan. I’m Graham.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Graham.”

The sheriff chuckles and claps David on the back. He had acted as a sounding board for him not two nights ago over beers when David proceeded to tell Graham how terrified he was about the decision to bring Emma into his life.

“You’ll be fine,” Graham had said. “No one deserves to be a father more than you. Foster or otherwise.”

And the words had knocked him absolutely silent. Talk eventually moved on to sports, but those words stuck with him, lulling him to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

“You’ll call if you need anything, yeah?” Graham winks at Emma and she blushes, ducking her head.

“You got it,” David laughs, watching as the sheriff exits the diner, dinging the little bell. “That’s Graham.”

“I like him,” Emma grins. “He talks funny.”

xxxxxx

The ducks are relatively uneventful – only three show up – but Emma reacts as if it’s a party thrown in her honor. She laughs as she pulls stale bread that Granny gave them apart and tosses it into the water, awed by the little animals nibbling the soggy pieces. 

Her little knees inch closer and closer to the edge as she leans out over the water, attempting to pet the latest duck to take bread from her hand and making David wonder if he remembers how to get grass stains out of jeans. He at least has enough forethought to grab onto the back of her shirt, instincts and reflexes he never knew he had flaring to life, but the red material stretches, showing a bit of her pale neck... and the bruise that starts at her shoulder blade and disappears down her back. 

He tries not to gasp, he really does, but it escapes anyway despite his best intentions. And Emma immediately freezes, pulling away from the water and cowering on the grass as if she’s done something wrong.

“What’d I do? I’m sorry!” she whimpers, clutching the stale bread to her chest like a teddy bear.

David’s need to tear apart the person that did this to her is warring rather brutally with his desire not to frighten her, and he crouches down holding up his hands even as they shake. 

“You didn’t do anything, sweetheart. I promise. I thought…” he struggles for something to say, “I thought I forgot to get something, but I didn’t. It’s okay.”

He scoots a little bit closer and it’s to the girl’s credit that she doesn’t back away from him. His hands are still shaking, but so is she so perhaps it all evens out. It takes a moment, but eventually she stops cowering and crawls back to the edge of the water, tossing the rest of the bread at the one duck that remains.

David, however, is glued to the grass wondering how the hell he didn’t emotionally prepare himself for this. He read her file. He listened to the social worker explain the situation. “Abuse” was a term thrown around again and again and used to describe situation after situation, but still, he didn’t think of what would happen when he actually _saw_ the bruises marring her perfect skin. When he actually _thought_ of the men whose palms were imprinted in carefully considered places to be hidden beneath her clothes.

He never _realized,_ which is why he’s slumped sideways on the grass watching the little girl who’s decided to place her trust in him.  

“Emma, I need to tell you something,” he finally croaks. She turns from the water and kneels in front of him, as he takes her little hands in his. “I will never, _ever_ hurt you.”

He leaves it at that, and her face becomes an inscrutable mask, staring at him as if trying to tell if he’s lying or not.

“Okay,” she finally whispers, apparently deeming him honest.

“Okay,” he repeats.

He doesn’t want to treat her like glass, but his touch is still hesitant when he places a hand on the back of her neck to guide her on their way home.

He wonders how many other hurts she’s hiding where no one can see, on her skin and in her heart.

He wonders how long it will take to heal them, and if she’ll think him worthy of the task. 

He hopes beyond hope that he’s worthy of the task. 


	3. Night Lights

She doesn’t even bring that many clothes – just enough to fill one drawer, maybe two – but he still finds the tiny items in front of him completely baffling. What the hell is a scrunchy and how on earth do you wrap it around hair? 

“David, I brushed my teeth!” he hears her call from the bathroom, interrupting his stream of confused consciousness. 

“Good girl,” he responds as he closes the drawer and finishes tucking in the sheet on her brand new blue bedding.

He hears her little footfalls padding down the hallway, but when she appears in the doorway, he can’t help but marvel at how half of her nightgown is absolutely soaking wet.

“What on earth happened to you? Did you go for a swim?” 

“I couldn’t reach the sink.”

 _Oh._ Of course she couldn’t. She’s five. “I’m sorry, squirt, you should have called me. I could have lifted you up. We’ll get you a stool tomorrow.” Again. Adjustments. “Let’s find you something else to…” he trails off, noticing her staring at him. “What?”

“You called me ‘squirt.”

Uh oh. “… I did. Is that okay?”

She nods and bites her lip, trying to hide a smile and failing. “I like it.”

“Okay.” The leaden weight that had suddenly dropped into his stomach disappears and he claps his hands together. “You need dry pajamas.”

“But I only have this.” She tugs on the cotton edge, the merriment of the prior moment gone. What child only has one set of pajamas?

“Then tomorrow we’ll go shopping and tonight, you can sleep in something of mine. Sound good?” 

Her blue eyes like up like fireworks. “Sounds great.”

He gets her an old t-shirt from a college whose memories are hazy at best. He’s not sure if that’s evidence of a good time had or just proof that he’s getting older, but she takes it from him reverently.

“I can sleep in this?”

“You can have it.”

“To keep?” 

“Forever.”

Her tiny lips silently mouth ‘wow’ as she pulls the nightgown over her head. She’s five, but he still turns around and counts to ten in his head, figuring that’s plenty of time for her to change, and sure enough, he turns back to find her climbing up on the bed and settling against the pillows.

“All set?”  

“Uh huh.”

“Now remember,” he begins as he pulls the covers back and she slips her feet beneath them, “I’m just across the hall. So if you get up in the middle of the night and can’t find your way, just come wake me.”

“I can’t wake you.”

“No?” He grins as he tucks the blanket up under her chin. “I’m pretty sure all you’d have to do is poke me.”

“But… won’t you be mad?”

“I’ll never be mad when you wake me up,” he says as he tries desperately to ignore the ache in his chest. “Never. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Light on or off?”

“Mmmm off.” She burrows into the pillow and he wants to bend down and place a kiss on her head, but they’re not ready for that. Not yet. Still, he reaches out to stroke her hair back and something catches his eye, stilling his hand.

“Where’d you get this?” he asks softly as he gently touches the worn wool.

“My parents gave it to me. My real parents.” She’s quiet, but he can hear the longing in her voice. No child should know that kind of pain.

“It's beautiful.” His finger traces the E-M-M-A sewn into the purple ribbon, thinking that had he had a daughter, the name probably would have been at the top of the list. “They must have cared a great deal to bundle you up in such a pretty blanket.”

“They didn’t care,” she mutters and turns away from him. “They left me by a road.”

And everything stops.

How could he be so stupid? He knew her backstory! Hell, he’d read it in the papers: _“Seven Year Old Boy Finds Baby on Side of Road”_ … _“Still No Leads on Deadbeat Parents: Baby Emma Remanded to Foster System.”_ He had the headlines memorized by now; the story was awful, to be sure, but something about it struck a chord within him – more than any of the other horror stories that usually end up as front-page news.

“Emma, I – ” He’s not used to this yet, this comforting-other-people-thing. He sits on the bed with a heavy sigh and places his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, squirt, look at me.”

She rolls over, but still keeps the covers tucked up to her nose.

“Your parents must have had a very good reason for leaving you like they did. Now, I don’t know them, but I know _you._ Maybe not very well, yet, but enough. And I know that no one could leave you unless absolutely forced.”

The blanket inches down her nose until he can see her mouth, but it’s her eyes he’s focused on as they slowly fill with tears. “You think so?”

“I know so.” And this time, he doesn’t stop himself as he leans down and places that feather-light kiss on her head. She needs it, needs the comfort and the reassurance.

And if he’s completely honest with himself, he kind of needs it too.

xxxxxx

_She’s cold, but sweating. Scared, but unable to move._

_There’s a man at the end of the hall, a tall, dark, angry man. Which one, she’s not sure (there’ve been many), but all she knows is that she needs to_ run _. He begins to come towards her and her heart feels like it’s about to pop out of her chest. She wants David. She wants to wake up. She wants to never see this man again –_

She flies up in bed with a gasp and quickly realizes she’s left herself uncovered. Unprotected. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she pants in the too-quiet room and tries to stifle a whimper.

“David,” she whispers, utterly overwhelmed by the shadows in the corners of the room she hasn’t memorized yet. “David?” Her voice won’t go louder, terrified as she is that someone else will answer her call.

 _He’s across the hall. Across the hall._ She thinks she can make it, if she runs. She’ll have to jump out of bed, because she’s not sure what’s beneath it. Something could grab her.

Her t-shirt is sticking to her but that’s the least of her worries. He showed her the bedroom earlier; it’s not far. She can definitely make it if she runs… on three… two… one.

She throws the covers back and bolts from the bed, heart pounding as her little feet carry her across the room, into the dark hallway, and through David’s door. She throws herself onto the side of the bed, thankfully the side he isn’t sleeping on, and immediately bursts into tears at the knowledge that she’s finally, completely _safe._

“Emma.” David immediately sits up and scoops her into his arms, and she buries her face in his chest as she lets the tears go. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

And she knows he does. She knows he won’t let anything happen to her, not while his large hand is rubbing circles on her back. She’s spent so much time trying to be strong, trying not to cry in front of _them,_ that now – safe in his arms – she just can’t stop.

He lets her go, gently rocking her back and forth as he murmurs things into her hair. She can’t always understand what he says, not over her sobs, but she takes comfort in it, letting her cries calm down into hiccups.

“Was it a nightmare?” he eventually asks and she nods against his chest. “Wanna talk about it?”

“It was the bad man.” 

David doesn’t ask who the bad man is and she’s thankful because she doesn’t want to talk about him. But he holds her a little tighter and she clings back just as fiercely.

“I won’t let him get you.”

She sniffles and marvels at the fact that he doesn’t seem to care that her tears and snot are all over his t-shirt. “I know,” she replies.

He places a kiss on her head, still rocking her, and reaches over to the bedside table and strikes a match.

“What’re you doing?”

The candle’s wick sparks and light dances on the walls. “It keeps the nightmares away.”

“It does?”

“Yep. My mother used to light a candle for me whenever I would have a nightmare.” He shifts her in his lap and leans back against the headboard, cocooning her safe in his arms. “Now you sleep, and I’ll be right here the whole time.”

“I can stay here?”

“If it’s all right with you. I like the company.” He smiles down at her and she knows he’s letting her stay for her own sake, even though he’s pretending like it’s for his. But she doesn’t argue; merely settles in deeper as the occasional hiccup rocks her body.

His hand continues to rub circles on her back, and before she knows it, she’s slipping off into a dreamless sleep.

xxxxxx

There’s sunlight streaming in through the window and a foot sticking into his side.

David blinks his eyes open and looks down to find that Emma has turned sideways and is now lying horizontally across the bed, with one of David’s pillows clutched in her little arms.

With a smile, he gently slides a hand under her back and another under her legs, righting her so she isn’t so close to falling off the bed, and he settles back down to stare at her, because he’s got nowhere else to be today.

The shelter had given him a week off to get settled. Even the school said that Emma didn’t need to enroll until Monday so she could spend some time getting to know her new home.

_Home._

Oddly, this house has never felt like his. The paint swatches, the dish patterns, even the damn windmill were all Kathryn’s idea. And then she abandoned it. Abandoned them. He had been willing to try, to fight, because that’s just what he did, but she gave up and he figured that anyone willing to give up that easily wasn’t worth the fight in the first place.

The windmill was obviously the first thing to go after she left.

But now, as he gently wraps this little girl’s blonde curl around his finger, he thinks that just maybe ‘home’ is exactly what this is. And this girl is absolutely, positively worth every bit of the fight.

Her brow creases and she stretches, nearly knocking him in the jaw with her tiny fist.

He chuckles as he lets her slowly awaken: her eyes blink open and she stares at the far wall for a moment, and he can clearly see the panic begin to settle in until her eyes find him and she calms.

“Hi,” she whispers. 

“Hi,” he responds. “What do you want to do today?”

Her eyes widen, as if no one has ever asked her that question, and she looks utterly overwhelmed by the possibilities.

“Tell you what. How about you and I go get some back to school supplies at the store on our way to Granny’s for breakfast. Sound good?”

“School?”

Oh, right. Her schooling hasn’t exactly been the most consistent. “Yes,” he says, “the local kindergarten class is really looking forward to you joining.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. And we can go pick up some new notebooks and pencils for you on our way to Granny’s famous banana pancakes.”

A grin splits her face and she kicks the covers off, scrambling to brush her teeth and he wonders briefly if the offer of banana pancakes will get her out of bed this quickly every morning when school is her final destination.

xxxxxx

Graham stirs the spoon in his coffee counter-clockwise, watching as the milk turns the brown liquid beige.

“Anything else, sheriff?” Ruby leans over the counter, offering him a lovely view down her top, but he smiles a gentlemanly smile and keeps his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

“No thanks, Ruby. I’m set for the moment.”

She only looks slightly disappointed as she goes to check on Dr. Whale at the end of the counter, and the good doctor isn't even in the vicinity of subtle as he checks out her ass when she bends to get him a napkin.

Graham shakes his head, gently chuckling, as the bell over the door rings, and he turns to see David enter with bags in his right hand and Emma’s palm in his left, a confident and radiant smile on his face. Fatherhood suits him.

“Mornin’, David.”

“Hey, Graham,” David responds as he leads Emma over to a booth and drops the bags on the seat. 

Graham slides off the stool and takes his cup with him as he joins them at the table.

“Emma, I have something for you,” Granny says from behind the counter, motioning the girl over. Emma looks up at David, the question clear in her eyes.

“Go ahead. I’ll be here.”

She bolts off and Graham chuckles. “She’s adapting well. Better than I thought she would.”

“Yeah,” David says, his eyes still on the girl. “She had a nightmare last night.”

Graham shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “It’s to be expected. New place and all.”

David nods, but Graham can tell something else is bothering him. “She’s been hurt.”

“What?”

David finally meets his gaze and Graham is shocked at the anger and pain he finds there. “I saw her bruises. She’s got them all down her back and I - ” He rubs his hands over his face and leans his elbows on the table. “They beat her, Graham.”

Suddenly the coffee in front of him loses its taste. “They what?”

“The nightmare last night was about ‘the bad man.’ I didn’t ask her who he was or what he did, but I can guess. I just – I don’t know what to do." 

Though Graham’s head is spinning with the new information, he can’t help but marvel at David’s ability to plaster a smile on his face and appear perfectly fine when Emma waves from behind the counter. He waves in return, but Graham can still see the pain in the lines around his eyes and the tension of his jaw. 

“She’s taken to you fine enough,” he tries and David nods, swallowing hard. 

“That’s what worries me. I’m not a permanent solution.”

And Graham knows what he means. He warned David in the beginning not to get too attached to the girl. He’s her foster father, nothing more. But they didn’t stop to consider what would happen if _she_ got too attached to _him._

“Look,” Graham says as he reaches across and grabs David’s forearm. “She’s got you. You’d never hurt her and you’d never let anything bad happen to her. I say this from experience, because lord knows you've gotten me out of enough scrapes. Now," he smiles, giving David's arm one final squeeze. "Tell me what’s in the bags.”

David laughs and shakes his head, knowing Graham is deliberating steering the conversation into lighter territory. “Nothing interesting. School supplies. A few notebooks, a Trapper Keeper.”

“What the bloody hell is a Trapper Keeper?”

“Some sort of folder-thing, I don’t know.” David rests his forehead on the table and groans. “I don’t remember back-to-school shopping being this difficult.”

“It wasn’t. Now there’re a million options. And they’re all hot pink.”

David quirks an eyebrow and pulls a blue and black binder from the bag. “Leave it to Emma to go for Batman over the princess.”

“My kinda girl,” Graham says as he picks up his coffee mug once more.

“Look what Granny gave me!” Emma exclaims, running over as carefully as she can with a milkshake towering with whipped cream and a cherry.

“Oh boy,” David says, as he slips a mock glare in Granny’s direction. Emma will be hopped up on sugar for _hours._

Graham wants to make a joke at his friend’s expense, but the bell over the door rings again and he straightens up a little as Mayor Mills walks through.

He glances at David, but he’s too immersed in wiping whipped cream off Emma’s face to notice the new customer. Regina starts over to the counter, but pauses when Emma’s loud giggles reach her ears.

And Graham watches as she turns to their table, briefly making eye contact with him before her piercing gaze lands on the little girl in David’s lap. Graham tenses, unsure why his instinct is to step in between them, blocking the girl from view, but it is.

Regina’s face is a mask, but her eyes – her eyes are dark pools rippling with something resembling shock and concern. Emma is clearly an unexpected and unwelcome development.

Graham moves to stand, giving in to that instinct to _protect guard save._

But without a word, the Mayor turns and leaves, the bell over the door signaling her exit.

 


	4. Awakenings

Six days. It's been six days since Emma arrived at his door and since then, David has been schooled in many things, not the least of which is the art of the bedtime tuck-in, brushing hair without it hurting, and why some sugary cereals are better than others.

_"No, David, Fruit Loops! We gotta go with Fruit Loops!"_

One thing he had failed miserably at? Braiding hair. And of course Emma had let it slip that it had been attempted, giving Graham blackmail material to hold over David's head until his dying day.

"David!" Emma yells from the top of the stairs. "I can't find my shoes!"

"Which ones?" he calls up as he packs sandwiches into bags for their afternoon picnic.

"My sneakers!"

"In the back of your closet!" he calls up.

There's a moment's silence and then he hears a "Found them!" coupled with the familiar thumping of her trying to slip them on while balancing on one foot. It's one of the many noises he's come to love, along with the soft snore that escapes her when she sleeps on her back and the giggle that starts low and ends high, resulting in a full-on laughing fit.

He's memorizing her, slowly but surely, as she occupies a little bit more of his heart day by day.

He chuckles as he tosses two juice boxes into the canvas bag and bundles a blanket on top of the food. Real life intrudes tomorrow – he goes back to work and she starts school – so he'd like to savor this afternoon while he can. A picnic by the water seems like the perfect plan; it's October and getting cold. Soon the ducks will be long-gone and David will have to figure out what one does with a manic five-year-old indoors.

"Almost ready?"

"Uh huh!" She flies down the stairs at a speed that gives David a minor heart attack every time, terrified as he is that she'll end up doing a header to the first floor one of these days.

"Your jacket's hanging on the railing; go and grab it," he says as he slides his arms into his own.

She nods and disappears down the hall, but when she doesn't reappear a moment later, he pauses, only slightly concerned.

"Emma?"

"David!" she yells, but he's gotten to know her yells by now. This isn't her typical shout to get his attention – this is panicked.

"Emma!" he hurries into the hallway, lunch forgotten, to find her standing stock still in the middle, staring at the person hovering in their doorway. "Kathryn," he says.

Kathryn seems just as shocked as the rest of them, eyes focused on the little girl as if trying to figure out if she's seeing what she's actually seeing.

"Kathryn, what are you doing here?"

"I – " she pries her eyes from Emma and focuses on David. "I came to get the last few boxes I left."

"You should have called," he replies, annoyed that their afternoon has been tainted.

"Clearly," she tartly retorts, nodding towards Emma. The acknowledgement sends Emma running back to David where she presses into his leg and wraps her arms around his waist. "Cute," Kathryn says.

"Don't," he spits out and the venom in that short little word has Kathryn taking a step back. She will not ruin this for him. "Get what you came for and leave."

"You're not going to introduce me?"

"No," he flatly says. "You made your decision regarding her."

"I didn't think you'd still go through with it."

"What, because you weren't here? Then clearly you didn't know me very well at all."

Silence.

Emma's grip on him tightens and he brings a hand back to run through her hair. The grip loosens, but she still presses into his leg, as if trying to fuse herself to his body. Kathryn watches the small movement with a pained expression.

"Kathryn."

"Right," she snaps out of it. "Right… I'll just…" She makes a vague gesture towards the stairs and quickly retreats.

"Lock up when you're done. And please leave the key under the mat."

Her faltering steps are the only clue she heard him. Only when Kathryn's disappeared on the top landing does Emma tilt her head up and look at David with wide eyes.

"Was that your wife?"

David nods, because he can't protect her from the fact that not everything ends happily. "That was my wife."

He continues to stare at the open door a moment more, before shaking his head to clear it and placing a kiss in Emma's hair.

"Come on, squirt. Can't keep the ducks waiting."

xxxxxx

They stay later by the water than originally planned, and David ends up carrying a comatose Emma through the streets of Storybrooke on their way home. She's light – lighter than she should be, but the social worker did inform him that she would be underweight. The thought of her going to bed hungry makes him clench his jaw, but he remembers that she's safe – she's _here_ – and he makes himself relax as he enjoys the cool fall night.

"Evening," a man says ahead of him, and David realizes as he passes under a street light that it's the pawnshop broker.

"Evening. Mr. Gold, right?"

"The one and only," he replies, donning his cane with a little flourish. "David Nolan, correct? I heard tell you were taking in a little girl."

David smiles down at the passed out child in his arms, unsure why this man makes him so uneasy. "Yeah. She clearly had a little too much excitement this afternoon."

Gold smiles. "That's what childhood is for."

"Have a nice evening," David offers, eager to get out of the awkward conversation. "I have to get Emma to bed."

"Emma," Gold repeats, something strange passing over his features. "What a lovely name."

David nods. "Wish I could take credit for it."

Gold's gaze darts between David and Emma rapidly, a smile lighting up his face. One that makes the hairs on the back of David's neck stand on end.

"You have a lovely night, Mr. Nolan."

"You, as well."

David turns and hikes Emma higher up on his hip, wondering what in the hell all _that_ was about.

The encounter irks him for the next ten minutes, until he finally walks up the path to his house to find Graham sitting on the porch steps.

"Where the hell have you been? The beer's gone warm!"

"Shhh."

"Oh damn." Graham winces. "Sorry. I'm still gettin' used to you with a kid."

David arches an eyebrow. "Thanks."

"I like it. She suits you."

David can't help the smile that splits his face. He didn't say, "It suits you." Graham said, "She suits you." David can't help but agree.

And though Emma might be cramping boys' night, David knows that Graham means what he says, which more than makes up for any lack of tact the sheriff might exhibit. Graham had singlehandedly gotten him through his separation. Well, Graham and Granny. And Archie keeps eyeing him as if just waiting for the day David ends up on his couch.

He smiles as he lets his nose brush Emma's hair. She smells like vanilla. And he doesn't doubt that most of the town views her as some sort of third-life crisis.

Graham stands and brushes off his jeans, and David can't help but scoff at how he's dressed.

"Whoa, watch out world, he's out of his sheriff jacket."

Graham gives him a sarcastic smile and lifts his hem of his shirt to show the badge still clipped to his jeans.

"Are you ever off-duty?"

"No. So behave yourself."

"Says the man who showed up at my house at 7:30pm on a Sunday carrying what can only be at _least_ two six packs."

Graham grins as he opens the bag. "Three."

"Jesus," David groans as he unlocks the door and leads the way into the house. "I have to be a respectable guardian and get her to school in the morning."

"Which I don't doubt you'll do with grace and aplomb," Graham says as he sets the bag down on the kitchen counter with a telltale _clink_.

"I hate you," David mutters as he exits the kitchen to take Emma upstairs.

"You love me!" Graham calls after him and David snorts, causing Emma to shift in his arms.

"David?"

"Sorry, baby," he murmurs as he slowly takes the stairs. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay," she blearily replies as her arms tighten around his neck. "Are we home?"

"Yeah, we're home," he responds as he kisses her head. "Bedtime."

"Mm hm." She buries her face into his neck and he feels her breath even out against his skin.

And as he pulls the covers back and gently lays her down, he's pretty sure that he's never loved anyone more than he's loved her. And she's been here six days.

He's in so much trouble.

xxxxxx

"You want the IPA or the stout?" Graham asks as David comes into the kitchen and sits at the table.

"IPA."

"Good," Graham says as he holds out a light beer and pulls a Guinness from the bag. "More for me."

David wordlessly takes the proffered bottle and raises it to his lips.

Graham frowns. "I sense distress."

"Nah, it's… Mr. Gold, the pawnbroker. I ran into him tonight."

"What'd he want?" Graham's never been a fan of the pawnbroker. And for good reason. Someone's always coming to the station with a complaint against the small, wily man.

"Nothing, it was just… weird. He looked at Emma oddly."

"Oh boy," Graham chuckles. "If you're a second away from biting off Gold's head for looking at Emma wrong, what chance does her future boyfriend have?"

The comment makes David laugh, which was Graham's intent all along, so he leans back in his chair and takes a healthy swig of his beer.

"If I get to keep her that long."

"God you're good at depressing me," Graham complains. "Then adopt her!"

"Whoa, she's barely been here a week!"

"So? You like her. You want to keep her around."

"She's not a pet."

Graham laughs. "You've been spending too much time at the shelter." When David doesn't agree or refute, he continues, "What you need is a woman."

David nearly snorts his beer. "Perhaps I should divorce the one I'm already with."

"Eh, technicalities. Emma starts school tomorrow, yeah? Who knows? Maybe you'll find a cute teacher."

David shakes his head, and Graham really needs to take him out to the nearest bar and get him absolutely tanked. Hm. Maybe Ruby will babysit.

"Doubtful," David finally replies, downing the rest of his beer.

They catch the end of the baseball game, but Graham keeps one eye on David the entire time. His brow remains creased, as if he's trying to work something out that's just beyond his reach. Gold looking at Emma oddly reminds Graham of Regina's reaction to her yesterday, and as much as he wants to tell David, he doesn't want to burden the man further.

It was probably nothing, anyway.

xxxxxx

"Rise and shine, kiddo. Time for school."

Emma groans and rolls over, burying her face in the pillow. "No school."

David sits next to her on the bed and sighs; he definitely had her pegged as a non-morning person the moment she walked through his door.

"Don't you want to meet your classmates?"

She shakes her head and pulls the covers up, hiding under the blue bedding.

"But what about your Batman binder? It's gonna get very lonely if you don't write in it."

She emerges just long to give him a look, before disappearing again.

"Banana pancakes?" he tries.

She's silent for a moment, before her blond head peeks out from under the pillow. "With whipped cream?"

David narrows his eyes. "Just this once. Your first day of school is a special occasion."

She smiles and kicks the covers off as he stands and allows her to scoot off the bed.

He helps her get the temperature on the shower just right, before running downstairs and pouring some batter on the griddle. He made it before he woke her up, knowing he'd eventually have to pull out that particular trump card.

She eventually comes down wearing jeans and a green top, continuing to both impress and sadden him at her self-sufficiency. He brushes her hair and pulls it back, going for a simple ponytail that still manages to be crooked.

Emma sighs as she glances at him in the mirror. "You'll get it eventually. Practice makes perfect," she says, sounding wise beyond her years as she leaves him gaping.

Pancakes are had, and the green top becomes a red one when she gets more syrup on her clothes than in her mouth.

They're five minutes late and David curses himself for already messing up this relatively simple task. He has her mini-backpack slung over his shoulder and her hand in his as they try to find room 107, his frustration rising as he passes every room _but_ 107.

"Down the hall, second door on the right," a voice says. 

"Excuse me?" David asks as he spins around.

The young woman in front of him nods towards Emma. "She looks about five or six. I figured you were looking for the Kindergarten room."

"… I am. I'm also impressed that you can tell how old she is just by looking at her."

"Well, when you've been working with kids as long as I have, you get a pretty good sense." She smiles and David's just _gone_.

"Hi," he chokes out after a moment that seems to last an eternity. "David Nolan." He holds his hand out, she takes it with a light blush, and he swears lightning just struck somewhere in the vicinity.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard. I teach fifth grade." She tucks a piece of short hair beyond her ear. "It's a pleasure to meet you, David."

And just like that, he's positively smitten.

"Likewise."

...

Somewhere, Graham is laughing.


	5. Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

David bounces on his toes, before leaning back against the side of his truck, crossing his arms, and trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

It's not working.

He doesn't know what the hell's come over him. Not at all. One minute he was freaking out because Emma was late to her first day of school and the next, he was shaking _her_ hand and wishing he had a paper bag to breathe into.

Mary Margaret Blanchard.

This is not good. Not. Good. He isn't even divorced yet! And then there's the matter of Emma, the quasi-daughter in his life that he desperately wants to hold onto until the end of time. He's been so used to giving and giving to a wife who didn't return the favor that he's not quite sure what to do with the desire to drop down on his knees and offer it all up willingly.

The bell rings and he straightens, looking for a mop of curly blond hair (and if he's completely honest with himself, a closely cropped style of a darker hue, too).

"David!" Emma calls as she comes out of the door.

For a moment, David isn't sure if she actually sees him, or if she just knows all she has to do is call and he'll come running. He begins to walk toward the entrance, waving as he catches her eye, and that's all she needs to take off like a shot and hurl herself into his arms.

He laughs as he picks her up, hiking her up on his hip. "I take it you had fun?"

"SO much fun!"

"So you think maybe tomorrow, you'll get out of bed on time?"

She scrunches her face. "We'll see."

He chuckles as he puts her down and takes her backpack, turning to lead her to the car.

"I take it you found it."

He stops dead, because after only two minutes' conversation, he'd know that voice anywhere. He turns and, sure enough, there she is, smiling brightly as she clutches a few folders to her chest. For a moment, he's pretty sure he forgets how to breathe.

"We did," he finally manages. "And it sounds like it was a successful first day."

Emma nods enthusiastically at his side and Mary Margaret laughs. "Good. Actually, David, I'm glad I caught you."

He inhales sharply.

"You work at the animal shelter, right?"

Does he? He's not sure if he remembers his own name. "Uh huh."

"Well," Mary Margaret continues, oblivious to his inner identity crisis, "I was interested in maybe bringing in an animal or two to show the class. Maybe have them take care of it for a little bit. Do you think you could help me with that?"

He'd help her move the moon if he could. "Of course," is what he says instead, smiling and nodding his head just as enthusiastically as Emma did. The little girl gripping his hand and lazily swinging it back and forth is the only thing keeping him tethered to the here and now.

"Great! Maybe I could come by tomorrow after school? I could even bring Emma over so you wouldn't have to come pick her up."

David glances down at Emma and she smiles brightly. "That good with you, squirt?"

"Uh huh."

David moves his gaze to the woman he swears he's known a lot longer than 24 hours.

"Then tomorrow it is."

xxxxxx

_Thump, thump, thump._

Graham groans as he blindly reaches for the watch on his nightstand and squints one eye in an attempt to see the time.

_6:37pm._

He had worked the nightshift last night and passed out shortly after 5pm, relishing the feel of his sheets and the softness of his pillow. All he wanted to do was sleep until dawn, but –

_Thump, thump, thump._

So much for that idea. He stumbles out of bed and promptly trips over a discarded pair of boots, catching himself on the dresser and flicking a light on in the hallway.

_Thump, thump, thump._

"Christ, what?!" He yells as he swings the door open, only to be met with David's tortured face as he carries a pajama-clad Emma in his arms.

"I'm in trouble."

Graham suppresses the urge to whine. "Trouble' as in 'You need to arrest me right now and then post my bail?' Or 'trouble' as in 'I'm emotionally unstable and need your advice?"

"The latter."

"Thank god," Graham groans as he opens the door further, allowing David to brush past him. "I don't _have_ the money to post your bail."

"What's bail?" Emma asks.

"Nothing," David and Graham reply simultaneously.

Emma raises an eyebrow as if to say _Really?_ but she lets it slide as David places her on the floor. She's wearing pajama pants, rain boots, and David's old college t-shirt, which falls somewhere past her knees. Graham honestly isn't sure who chose that particular outfit: the adult or the child.

He rubs his eyes and pours Emma a glass of juice, which he hands her with a wink. She smiles widely at him as she takes it and allows herself to be pulled onto David's lap as he settles into a chair.

"Did you two eat?" Graham asks, trying to remember his role as host even though he's pretty sure the only items his fridge contains are stale milk and beer.

"Yeah, we ate. And…" David pulls a Tupperware out and places it in front of Graham. "I knew you were on the night shift. I figured you hadn't."

"Oh bless you," Graham groans, grabbing a fork and digging in, not even bothering to heat it up. "You're cooking's improved," he says around a mouthful of pasta.

David raises an eyebrow and mutters a thanks, but Graham is too busy staring at the expression on his friend's face and how it's almost identical to the one his foster daughter wore just moments ago.

Weird.

"So, what's this trouble you've gotten yourself into?"

"So… there's this teacher…" David begins, but Graham bursts out laughing before he can utter another word.

xxxxxx

The bells rings, signaling the end of another day and Mary Margaret gathers her books and pencils, calling out a "No running!" just for good measure.

The kids wave their goodbyes, one even drops off a pear for her, and then the doors close, leaving her in silence.

It always seems she's in silence.

She sighs and slides the tests she has to grade into her bag, swinging it over her shoulder and setting off towards the kindergarten classroom.

"Bye, Miss Blanchard," a girl waves as she jogs down the hall to catch up with her friends.

"Bye, Paige," Mary Margaret replies as she turns the knob to the room where, hopefully, her charge is waiting for her.

Sure enough, the door swings back, revealing the small blond haired girl sitting at a desk, idly swinging her legs back and forth. She perks up immensely upon Mary Margaret's arrival.

"Hi, Miss Blanchard."

"Hello, Emma," she replies, nodding to the teacher waiting that she could take it from there. "All set?"

"Uh huh," Emma says as she hops out of her seat and swings her bag over her shoulder. "I haven't been to the animal shelter, yet," she whispers as if divulging a big secret. "I'm really excited."

"Yeah?" Mary Margaret replies, leaning down so they're nose-to-nose. "Me too." She holds her hand out, the little girl takes it, and Mary Margaret has absolutely no idea why her stomach seems to jolt at the touch.

The sun is bright as they exit the school and Mary Margaret savors it, knowing it'll probably be one of the last nice days they have before winter sets in. Emma swings her hand back and forth as they stroll the few blocks to the shelter, animatedly retelling the highlights of her day.

"… and I don't like math, but then we read a story, so it was okay."

"Do you like to read?"

"I do," Emma responds as they cross a street. "I didn't get to read much at my old home, so I'm still not very good at it."

"I could help you, if you'd like."

"Really?"

Mary Margaret nods, finding immeasurable joy at putting a smile on that child's face.

"That would be great!"

"Maybe we should ask your fa – uh, I mean David. Maybe we should ask David first."

Emma's features immediately go tight, and Mary Margaret thinks it's not right for a child of five to have perfected the art of the fake smile.

"You like David, don't you," she offers, thinking that perhaps the girl fakes it because no one has ever bothered asking her why she feels the need to.

Emma is silent for a moment before finally offering a careful nod. "I do. A lot."

"He seems like a good man."

"The best. He makes banana pancakes," is her solemn reply and Mary Margaret has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. But why shouldn't banana pancakes be the barometer by which all good parents are measured? Surely care and love must go into every batch.

"I'll have to try them one day."

And Emma looks at her with such conviction and not a little bit of mischief when she replies, "Don't worry. You will."

Mary Margaret stands in front of the shelter slightly stunned as the little girl runs ahead. Had she been so transparent? After all, it's not every day that she calls out to random strangers. Initiating conversation is not exactly one of her fortes; but she saw him standing there looking so lost and she just _had_ to speak to him. Her body, her mind, her very soul was giving her no other option.

She clears her throat and follows the girl through the door, and immediately the potent smell of dog food, shampoo, and birdcage shavings hits her.

"There's my girl," David says as he comes around the counter and swings Emma into his arms. "And how was the second day?"

"Great!"

"Great? Better than the first?"

"Uh huh."

"And how was math?"

"Bleh," Emma replies and David chuckles, kissing her on the cheek and setting her back down on the ground.

"Miss Blanchard, thanks so much for bringing her."

"Mary Margaret, please," she says, taking the hand he's outstretched to her.

The minute their palms touch, something… _odd_ … happens. Not bad, just not quite right. Or maybe too right. She can't really tell at the moment. David seems to be suffering from the same confusion and it takes them each a moment to release the other's hand.

"David, do you have puppies?" Emma tugs on his shirt, effectively snapping whatever trance Mary Margaret had just gotten herself into.

"Uh… yeah," he shakes his head, sparing a brief side-glance to her, "of course we do." He gets his energy back as he claps his hands and stares at her once more. "Mary Margaret, did you have any ideas about what kind of animal you'd like to look at?"

"Oh gosh, something small," she blushes under his intense gaze.

"A hamster!" Emma cries out, happy to contribute to the conversation.

Mary Margaret scrunches up her nose. "Maybe something not-so-smelly."

"A cat?" Emma tries again.

"Two of my students are allergic."

"They do make small dogs, you know," David says with a wink.

And Mary Margaret's knees nearly buckle.

"Small dogs are good," she finally squeaks out, allowing him to lead the way into the back.

Emma is quick to plaster herself to a cage with a few golden retriever puppies stumbling about inside and by the time the adults make it to her, she's practically _begging_ David to let them out.

"Hold your horses, squirt," he says as he pulls out the keys. "Now remember, we're here to help Miss Blanchard pick out a pet, okay?"

Emma nods even though her eyes don't leave the puppies in front of her.

David shakes his head and chuckles. "Go ahead and take a look around. She'll be occupied for a while."

Mary Margaret starts down the corridor lined with cages, listening to the nips and yelps and barks that surround her.

"Is this a temporary adoption, or a more permanent thing?" David asks as he falls in step with her.

"You know, I'm honestly not sure," she replies, pausing in front of a tiny French bulldog. "I guess I should start with temporary. Is that allowed?" She turns, but David isn't watching her. His eyes are on Emma.

Oh. Adoption. Temporary. Permanent. Of _course_ his thoughts are on the girl. Silly Mary Margaret.

"Can I see him?" she asks as she places a hand on David's arm, snapping his attention immediately back to her.

"Of course."

A few moments later and her arms are full of wiggling puppy with a scrunched up face, big ears, and a cold nose. He's quite possibly the most adorable thing she's ever seen – save for the man standing to her immediate left.

"What's his name?"

"Rory."

"Rory," she repeats. "I like it. How old is he?"

"Four months. He was found in the woods with no collar."

"You're a baby, aren't you," she coos and is rewarded with a nice lick to the cheek. "It looks like we have a winner," she laughs, tilting her chin up so the puppy kisses don't get her square on the lips.

"All right, then," David replies warmly, shutting the cage and staring at her once more. "Can you handle him for a moment, while I make sure Emma isn't hiding puppies in my car?"

"Sure," she laughs as David jogs down the corridor. She follows at a slower pace and nearly bumps right into him as she turns the corner. She moves to ask what's wrong, why he's stopped dead in his tracks, but then she looks around his shoulder to find Emma sitting cross-legged on the floor with three separate golden retriever puppies climbing on top of her. Her giggles bounce off the cream-colored walls and fluorescent lights.

It's one of the best sights Mary Margaret has ever seen.

She glances sideways at David to find him staring at Emma as if she holds his entire world, and Mary Margaret is pretty sure the girl actually does. He has a soft smile on his face and he leans against the wall, his hand unconsciously moving towards his chest.

It must hurt, having so much love slam into you at once.

She's pretty sure she knows the feeling, just from watching him watch her.

After all, it only took a puppy, a girl, and a smile for David Nolan to walk away with her heart.

xxxxxx

This is unacceptable.

And Regina doesn't handle 'unacceptable' particularly well.

She watches from her car as David Nolan pulls up in front of Mary Margaret's apartment, the brat sitting between them. A five-year-old in the front seat. Well done, Charming.

Mary Margaret glances down and gets out gingerly, holding a small dog in her arms, and Regina does her best not to sneer. Typical.

It takes her a moment to realize she's not the only one admiring the family reunion; turning to her right, she finds Gold standing on the sidewalk watching David wave to Mary Margaret with an unreadable expression on his face.

She moves to put her car in gear, but he begins walking towards David's truck and, as he passes her, he winks.

There is a girl in town, Snow White and Prince Charming are riding in cars together, and Rumpelstiltskin is _winking_ at her.

Regina is nearly vibrating with anger as she throws the gearshift into 'drive' and squeals the tires in a u-turn.

Yes, this is entirely unacceptable.

xxxxxx

"Mr. Nolan."

David starts, turning away from Mary Margaret's door and facing the man standing at his passenger side window.

"Mr. Gold." He tries to keep the uneasiness from his tone, but at Gold's indulgent smile, he's pretty sure he failed.

"And you must be Miss Swan."

Emma glances at David quickly before nodding.

"Welcome to Storybrooke," he says amiably, focusing back on David. "She has your eyes."

David scoffs. "That's not possible."

"Isn't it?" Gold smiles. "No I suppose not," he says in a way that implies he doesn't suppose at all.


	6. Voices

Regina taps one perfectly manicured nail against the recently waxed surface of her desk and gnaws on the end of a pencil, glaring at no one in particular as she stares out of her office window.

Something is off. And in this town, something is _never_ off. It runs like clockwork – if only she had a working clock for proof. The old lady and the wolf argue over eggs, Snow White is meek and apologetic, the cricket takes the dog for a walk.

And then there's Charming. Charming, who up until a couple of weeks ago had been trapped in a loveless marriage without the courage to break it off. But then… talk of a foster child started. And it all spiraled out of control. 

"It seems I was two decades off of my prior calculation," a voice says and she looks up to find Mr. Gold framed in the doorway.

"What calculation?" Regina snaps.

"Nothing," he replies, but the look on his face says it's most definitely not nothing.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Gold?" Her tone is weary. She just wants to go home and consume an entire bottle of wine while soaking in a bubble bath. Gold does not factor into any of those plans.

"Just thought I'd pop in," he says brightly. Which is odd – the man is never spontaneous nor is he bright.

"For…" she prompts, not liking the fact that he takes the liberty to come around her desk and glance out the window.

"Charming, aren't they," he says, nodding to where David Nolan carries the brat to his car.

At first, she thinks it odd; it's not the end of the school day yet. But then his word choice echoes in her ears and everything else _stops._

Her thumping pulse is all she can hear as Gold watches her carefully. "What's your name?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your name, what is it?"

He scoffs, looking offended. "Am I that forgettable? You sure know how to bruise a man's ego, Madame Mayor."

"What. Is. Your. Name?" Her hands are shaking and she's thisclose to snapping both the pencil and his neck in two.

"Mr. Gold, of course," he simply replies.

"Your _real_ name."

"Every moment I've spent on this earth, that's been my name." He smiles, raising an eyebrow; though whether it's a taunt or a truth, she's not quite sure.

"But what about moments spent elsewhere?"

"This is quite the tale you've spun."

 _Spun. Charming. Prior_ _Calculation._

Something must pass across her face, because Gold smiles and tips his cane to her, his job apparently done.

By the time she gathers herself, he's nearly sauntered out the door.

"The child?" Regina asks, fear tingeing her tone. "Who is the child?!"

Gold stops at the doorway, spinning with a little flourish. "Oh I think you know, _dearie_."

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret dumps her groceries on the counter and attempts to catch the oranges that roll out of her bag. She saves all but one, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud, but she picks it up and brushes it off, placing it reverently in the bowl of fruit on the middle of her table. No harm done.

The phone is shrill when it rings, and despite living in this apartment for god knows how many years, she still jumps every time the sound breaks the silence.

"Hello?"

"… Um, hi."

"David?" Her heart immediately jumps into her throat and she reaches for the edge of the counter, just to have something to lean against.

"… Yeah. Listen, I'm really sorry to bother you – "

"No, it's fine! I mean – I mean it's not a bother. Not at all." _Get a grip, Mary Margaret._

"Well the thing is…" he trails off and huffs out a breath, sounding nervous, "how high is too high of a fever when you're five?"

That might have been the most adorable phrasing of a basic question Mary Margaret's ever heard. "Oh no, is Emma sick?"

"Or she's turned into the girl from The Exorcist. To be perfectly honest, it's scaring the living daylights outta me."

Mary Margaret has started pacing and only when she feels a tug does she realize that she's completely knotted herself up in the phone cord.

"Having a sick child can be scary, but I'm sure she'll be fine." She inhales deeply and bites her lip, not really believing the words are about to leave her mouth. "Do you… do you want me to come over?"

He's silent and it's the most terrifying three seconds of her life.

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all!" she replies and she sincerely hopes she didn't come off as enthusiastic as she felt. There is sick kid in the picture, after all. Mustn't get too excited.

"Great. Um, the address is 216 Hollyhock St."

"Great," she says. "I'll be right over."

"Great."

That was far too many 'greats,' she thinks as she hangs up the phone and attempts to untangle herself. Though she had been missing Rory, she's suddenly grateful that the puppy is spending the night with one of her students.

She quickly gathers what materials she thinks Emma might need and briefly considers changing her outfit, but no – that's ridiculous – so she settles for the gray skirt and light blue top she's already wearing.

It takes her roughly seven minutes to get from her front door to his, and it opens before she can even raise her hand to knock.

"You are a lifesaver," he says, looking pale and not a little ill himself.

"Are you all right?"

"I just – I want her to be okay."

"David," she laughs lightly as she places a hand on his arm. "Kids get sick. I see it every day. It's what happens. She's going to be _fine_. I promise."

He looks unconvinced, but slightly less panicked at her words. With a nod, he opens the door further and beckons her in, promptly taking her coat and the bag from her hand.

"I just brought some stuff: Vicks VapoRub, children's cough medicine the school nurse gave me a while back…"

He looks a little overwhelmed, but she's got to cut him some slack. Most parents have years of dealing with mini-crises – weaning, teething, toilet training – so by the time they get to a five-year-old with a fever, it's a cakewalk.

But not for David. This is a crash course in parenting.

"How about you take me to the patient."

He nods and begins leading her to the living room. "I figured it would be easier to have her near the kitchen. And the phone. And if she wanted to watch TV. And – "

"It's a good idea," she quickly says, saving him from himself. "Good idea."

He moves aside and she finally catches a glimpse of Emma, curled up on the couch under what looks like five blankets. She's pale and sweating, yet shivering; despite what Mary Margaret says about kids being sick all the time, she can't help the spike of panic she feels at seeing the girl looking so fragile.

"Hey, sweetheart," she whispers, the endearment falling easily as she kneels next to the couch.

Emma blinks her eyes open and smiles. "Are you here to read to me?"

"I'm here to do whatever you want me to do."

"I like reading," she says, before promptly launching into a coughing fit. David rushes forward and helps Emma sit up, rubbing a hand over her back and murmuring soothing things in her ear.

Mary Margaret can't help but hurt for the little girl, and she finds herself squeezing Emma's leg beneath the mountain of blankets.

The little girl is holding onto David's shirt like a lifeline, so he perches on the edge of the couch and scoops her into his arms.

"I know it hurts," he whispers as he places a kiss to her head. "I'm sorry. I wish I could make it all go away."

David makes eye contact with her and Mary Margaret smiles softly, hoping to convey all her confidence in him in that one tiny gesture. It seems to work, because he returns it, and she stands.

"She probably needs fluids. Do you have any chicken broth?"

"Yeah, in the cabinet above the stove. Here, I'll – "

"No, no. I've got it," she insists, halting his attempt to get off the couch. "You stay here."

He looks apologetic, but the expression is wiped off his face when Emma settles back against him, gripping his shirt once more and sighing into his chest. David looks like it's Christmas come early.

Mary Margaret starts towards the kitchen, but stops abruptly when she sees a framed photo above the mantle. It's of David with a smile she knows is not genuine ( _how_ on earth does she know that?), with his arm around a blond woman who beams at the camera.

"Everything all ri…" he trails off as he cranes his neck to see what she sees. "Oh. That's um…"

"Your wife," she says flatly.

"My wife," he confirms and it's like a dagger through her heart. "Soon to be ex."

"Ah." It doesn't quite make her feel better. She was a fool to come.

"We um… disagreed on some major life decisions." His voice is more sorrowful than she's ever heard and she turns to find him staring at Emma once more.

It's not hard to deduce which life decisions those were.

"I'll be right back with some chicken broth," she whispers, putting on a smile that's even faker than the one in his picture.

And when she gets to the kitchen, she crumbles, unsure why she should care so much about a man she's known for so little.

xxxxxx

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

That's what's going through David's head as Mary Margaret disappears into the kitchen. He doesn't quite know what he's feeling, but he knows he probably shouldn't be feeling it. Not while still technically married. Not while a wedding ring sits in his bedside drawer, a ring whose tan line still stains his fourth finger.

"David?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Can you sing?"

Huh. Sing. He's never had that request before, but he's pretty sure he'd do anything Emma asked of him.

"Uh, sure."

A song comes to mind from a movie he thinks he remembers watching as a child, but the plot points are sketchy at best. Still, he remembers the tune well enough and he hums it in her ear.

" _A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain_ _/_ _Softly blows o'er lullaby bay._ _/_ _It fills the sails of boats that are waiting-_ _/_ _Waiting to sail your worries away."_

"I love that song," Mary Margaret murmurs and David glances up to find her leaning against the doorframe. She looks better than she did when she fled the room moments ago, but he still hates himself a little bit for putting that shattered look on her face.

"I can't remember the rest," he quietly replies.

"It'll come back to you," she reassures.

And for some reason, he thinks she's talking about more than just the lyrics.

xxxxxx

The microwave dings but just as she's about to turn and retrieve the broth, Emma gets sick all over pretty much everything. David sits there, slightly stunned, but then Emma bursts out crying and he's immediately in placating mode, kissing her hair and telling her it's completely fine.

"So perhaps the broth was a bad idea," she says as she immediately comes forward and folds the soiled blanket up.

"Perhaps," he says against Emma's hair, gently rocking her back and forth. He needs to change his shirt, but he sits there anyway, not moving until the little girl is calmed. "I know it's not fun, but it won't last, sweetheart."

"What was her last temperature?"

"101.4."

Mary Margaret scrunches her face; it's definitely higher than she'd like, but maybe they can get Emma to keep down some medicine.

Emma's eyes eventually close and her breathing evens, and David scoots out from under her, gingerly walking to the kitchen and pulling off his shirt as he does so.

Mary Margaret tries to remember how to breathe.

"It's gotta be some kind of parental rite of passage, huh?" he throws over his shoulder as he digs through a pile of clean laundry, looking for a shirt.

"You can cross it off the bucket list," she manages, trying _oh so hard_ not to focus on the muscles in his back.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard, always looking at the silver lining," he says with a grin, turning with a t-shirt in hand.

She gasps, but for once, not because of his incredibly toned physique. No, what makes her breath catch in her throat are the scars that mar his torso. One slashes horizontally from his sternum to his shoulder, one is small and circular, meeting just where the long one ends, and the last is shorter but deeper. Angier. Almost… fatal.

She reaches out without realizing and quickly recoils, images flashing before her eyes as the world suddenly goes off kilter.

" _No, No, No. Please. Please come back to me." Lips press together, but eyes do not open._

"Mary Margaret?"

" _She got away. You're going to lose. I know that now. Good will always win." She cradles his cheek, even as he stains her nightgown red._

"Mary Margaret!"

She's jolted back to find David standing eye to eye with her, cupping her face in his large hands and looking more than a little concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah," she clears her throat and attempts to swallow around the rather large lump that's lodged itself there. "I'm fine. Zoned out for a moment, sorry."

He continues to eye her warily, but releases her face. She tries not to whimper.

"Where'd, um, where'd you get them?" she quietly asks, almost afraid of the answer.

He glances down at his chest and runs a finger along one, then the other. "Car accident. A while ago. I don't remember much of it."

She nods and tries not to imagine him surrounded by mangled steel. She's not sure why her emotions concerning him veer towards the extreme. It's like it's impossible to feel just a little bit of anything when it comes to David Nolan. She feels a lot. Everything, in fact – all at once and it's exhausting and confusing and humbling and thrilling.

"You sure you're okay?" He's slipped his shirt on and she's surprised to find she's actually glad. She's not sure she could look at those scars for much longer.

They bring images to her mind and a voice…

" _I don't want to do this."_

" _It has to be you."_

" _I'm not leaving you."_

A voice that is hers, and yet… not.


	7. Contingencies

This is not exactly how she planned on the evening going.

David's concerned; she knows he is. She can feel his gaze follow her about the room, even as he keeps his attention solely focused on the little girl sipping broth in front of him. It's an impressive feat of multitasking, but for the first time since meeting him, Mary Margaret wishes he would just ignore her for a moment.

Her head is still swimming with… well. Whatever _that_ was. And she can't think about it without nearly vomiting from the pain.

" _No, No, No. Please. Please come back to me."_

The words alone are a sucker punch to her heart, and her arms automatically wrap around herself as if holding her body together. It had felt _so_ real. So _agonizing_.

She can see his lifeless face before her as clearly as she can see him now, making a goofy expression at Emma and garnering laughter in return.

But that's not what she saw before. She saw his pale white skin and his red, red blood. She saw the sword lying just a few feet away and the soft smile gracing his face. He had won.

Whatever he had done, he won.

"Mary Margaret?"

"Yeah?" she jumps at his voice to find him looking at her curiously. She can see the underlying question in his eyes, but she plasters a smile on her face and tries to look as sane as possible.

She briefly wonders if he knows her smiles as well as she knows his.

"Her fever's down," he says, and only then does she realize he's holding a thermometer. "99.8."

"Great!" This time, she doesn't have to fabricate her happiness. Her eyes fall to Emma who does indeed look like she has more color and energy. "How do you feel?"

"Super!" Emma replies, even though she can barely sit up without David's help. He chuckles and places a kiss on her head as Emma leans into him. Mary Margaret desperately wishes she had a camera.

Then something occurs to her and she freezes. She's been in that position before, next to David, holding his hand. She was in pain. She was suffering. But he kissed her temple, whispered against the shell of her ear, and gave her all of the confidence in the world.

The image is blurry and she can't quite make out the details, but it feels as though it happened only yesterday.

Odd.

xxxxxx

She has a strange look on her face, like she's trying to remember something just out of her reach, and David moves to stand, but Emma's grip on his shirt is fierce and he falls back down next to her on the couch with a laugh.

"All right, all right."

She grins and cuddles back into his side, reveling in her victory.

"You know, squirt, I'm being a terrible host. I haven't even gotten Miss Blanchard a glass of water."

Mary Margaret smiles and shakes her head. "I know my way around your kitchen by now," she says and David's heart skips a beat. He wishes she knew her way around his house, his heart, his life.

"Still," he replies, placing a placating kiss on Emma's head. "I promise I'll be right back."

The girl pouts and some invisible tether almost chains him to the couch at that one look.

"Aw, come on. Don't do that to me."

She pouts harder.

Mary Margaret's chuckle breaks through the spell that Emma's put him under. "She has you absolutely wrapped around her finger."

Finally he stands and Emma grins. "Yeah, and she knows it," he mutters, winking at the girl as he moves towards the kitchen. "Please forgive my horrible manners, can I get you anything to eat or drink? It's almost dinner time, you must be starving."

He can see the slight blush in her cheek, but before she can answer, the phone rings and David immediately curses whomever's on the other end.

"Hello?"

"I need your help," Graham's voice says, sounding all business and David immediately straightens.

"What can I do?"

"I know Emma's sick, and normally I wouldn't ask, but there's a break in in process at Gold's. I need an extra hand."

David glances at Mary Margaret, his face apologetic even as hers registers the seriousness on his. "I'm on my way." He hangs up and opens his mouth to explain, but she holds her hands up.

"Whatever it is, go. I'll watch Emma."

"I'm sorry."

"David, go. Really, it's fine. We'll have girl-time."

He feels better at that, but he had promised her he'd be right back. She's been here less than two weeks, and he's already breaking promises.

He hurries into the living room and places a kiss on her head. "Baby, I gotta run and help Graham with something."

He's bracing himself to have to walk away from her pleading eyes and wavering bottom lip, but she doesn't pout, as if she knows the severity of the situation.

"Come back soon," is all she says and he silently thanks her for it.

"I will."

Mary Margaret offers him a reassuring smile as he grabs his coat and hurries towards the door.

"Be careful," she calls when he turns the knob and he stops, giving her a look that he thinks he's given her before.

A reassuring, loving glance, just before running headfirst into danger.

xxxxxx

He figures the sheriff will forgive him for breaking every single one of Storybrooke's speed limits as he drives to the pawnshop. Graham's car is already idling a block away, though the driver's side door is open and the headlights are off. David's heart lurches at the thought of his friend in danger and he pulls up behind the cruiser, quietly closing the door and sprinting around the back of the shop.

He doesn't make it very far though, as he's tackled while turning the corner, hitting the ground with a hard thud.

"Jesus, I thought you were him," Graham mutters, while gingerly getting off David.

" _You_ called _me_ ," David reminds him, groaning slightly and thanking the gods that Graham is as slight as he is. "I think you bruised a few ribs."

"You'll live. Where's Emma?"

"Mary Margaret is watching her."

"The school teacher? Nice."

"Shut up."

A crash is heard inside the shop and immediately both men tense. Graham pulls his gun from his holster, and David immediately questions how smart it was for him to join. He has someone depending on him now. It's not just himself he's putting in danger – if something happens to him, Emma will be taken away and then what?

He shakes the morose thoughts from his mind, focusing on Graham's attempt to jimmy the back door open without making a sound.

"How many in there?"

"The caller thought one."

David nods and wishes he had something a little more substantial to defend himself with than the flashlight Graham pushes into his hand.

"Don't do anything dumb."

And David stops, because Graham's never said anything like that to him before. He's helped the sheriff out in situations like this – being a police force of one is not exactly ideal – but never has his friend verbally forbade him from doing anything rash. Until now.

Until Emma.

David nods, ignoring the fact that his throat has gone tight and follows Graham into the building as the door finally swings quietly back.

They tiptoe through the office, but don't make it very far beyond that. Upon entering the actual stop, Graham is tackled to the ground and the intruder quickly stands and rounds on David, attempting to hit him in the head with what looks like the butt of a sword.

David dodges and grabs the nearest object. He parries another swipe, finding fate to have a sense of humor when he realizes the object in his hand is a sabre.

He blocks a few more hits, spins, and knocks the sword from the intruder's hand before sweeping the blunt side of his sabre under the thief's legs and landing him flat on his back.

He stands, his reflexes finally relinquishing their hold on his body and takes a look at his handiwork. Graham is dumbstruck as he gapes at his friend.

"Where the bloody hell did you learn to do that?"

"I have absolutely no idea," David replies, looking at the sword like it had sprung to life and acted of its own accord.

The intruder attempts to get up, but Graham is quick to pounce on him and wrestle him into a pair of handcuffs. "What's your name?"

The man groans out, "Jefferson" and Graham looks questioningly at David who shrugs as if to say _'Never heard of him.'_

"And what the hell do you so desperately need from Gold's pawnshop?" the sheriff asks as Jefferson struggles.

"It's for you!" he cries, trying to make eye contact with David. "I was getting it for _you_! It's yours!"

"Mine? What's mine?" David has yet to lower his weapon, and Graham shakes the man in order to speed his reply.

"There," Jefferson groans. "Over there. The mobile."

David starts to chuckle, thinking it positively ridiculous that anything in here could possibly belong to him, but the chuckle slowly fades as he follows Jefferson's gaze.

"That's not…" He trails off and moves toward it as if hypnotized. "That's…" He reaches a shaky hand out and gently touches the foot of one of the glass unicorns. "Mine."

"David?" Graham asks, concern and confusion in his tone.

"This is mine," David whispers, unhooking the mobile and holding it preciously in front of him.

"Do you remember?!" Jefferson cries, struggling once again in Graham's arms.

David blinks as he turns away from the mobile and stares the mad man in the face.

"Remember what?"

xxxxxx

Emma is well enough to sit at the kitchen table and nibble on some toast as Mary Margaret prepares an easy pasta dish. David will probably be hungry when he gets home and she can't help the warm feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach at the thought of how _domestic_ this all is.

She's sipping tea and playing I Spy with Emma in an effort to keep her mind off the fact that David is doing something potentially dangerous with the sheriff. She doesn't know Graham well, but they're friendly. It's strange, though, that in all her time here she's never bumped into David before. Never even passed him on the street or seen him from afar in Granny's.

But then again, her life is spent at home, the school, and not really anywhere else. Until Emma, David had no reason to venture to either.

"Miss Blanchard! It's your turn!"

"Oh," Mary Margaret jumps. "Right, of course." She bites her lip and runs a cursory glance around the kitchen, her gaze landing on an obviously homemade magnet on the refrigerator. Its prominence dead center, pinning up Emma's school schedule makes Mary Margaret's heart swell. "I spy with my little eye something blue."

She glances over her shoulder to find the girl squinting adorably as she surveys the kitchen. "The towel?" she asks, pointing to the cloth that's draped over Mary Margaret's shoulder.

"No."

"Hmm… my plate?"

"Nope."

Suddenly she gasps and points to the fridge. "My magnet!"

"Yep," Mary Margaret grins, giving in to the infectiousness of Emma's enthusiasm.

"I made that special for David."

"Did you? At school?"

"Uh huh." And suddenly, she asks a question that nearly knocks Mary Margaret flat. "Are you gonna marry David?

She chokes on her tea, coughing and spluttering while trying to catch her breath. "Uh no," she manages. "David and I aren't… we aren't…" she trails off as Emma looks expectantly up at her. "We aren't dating."

"Oh. Well, I hope you do. I like you."

Mary Margaret's cheeks warm. "I like you too."

"There's a boy named Bobby in my Kindergarten class who wants to date me. But I punched him in the face and got a time-out."

"Oh. And how did David react?"

"He gave me a high five," Emma states matter-of-factly. Then, after a moment of consideration, she says, "Please don't punch David."

Mary Margaret laughs. "I promise I won't."

Emma goes back to her toast, as if the past five minutes have not completely rocked Mary Margaret's world. Marrying David? Where on earth had that come from? She's been in the picture for all of a day! They haven't… she doesn't…

It's all incredibly confusing.

"Miss Blanchard!"

"Yes?"

Emma is giving her an adorably impatient glance. "I spy with my little eye something green!"

She searches the kitchen with her eyes, but her heart is trying remember what it is to beat.

xxxxxx

"David?" he tries, but his friend continues to stare at the mobile, transfixed. "David!" Graham reaches for the glass, but David rounds on him with fire in his eyes. Graham takes a step back and raises his eyebrows. "Easy. It's me."

David blinks and finally seems to come back to himself. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Do you remember?!" Jefferson asks, and Graham nudges him none too gently with the tip of his boot.

"Be quiet."

David places the mobile back on its hook but doesn't remove his eyes from it.

"What was that about?" Graham murmurs, low enough so Jefferson can't hear.

"I don't know," David responds.

" _Is_ this yours?" Graham touches the glass and sends fragmented light dancing on the wall.

"… I don't know."

It's an odd answer – either you know or you don't – and Graham figures a perfectly carved glass unicorn mobile is not something easily forgotten.

"Come on. Follow me to the station." He places a firm hand on David's shoulder, but even with a tug, the man is still hard to move from his spot.

"Right…" David says, turning to Graham, his gaze flickering to the man on the ground. "Right."

Jefferson smiles a smile that's not quite sane. "It's begun."

"Shut up," Graham replies at the same time David asks, "What's begun?"

"The beginning of the end," the thief replies and Graham rolls his eyes, hauling him to his feet.

"Nutter."

With David's help, Jefferson is thrown rather unceremoniously into the backseat of the cruiser and Graham leads the way to the station to find Mr. Gold already waiting for them.

"Ah, Jefferson," Gold stands with a welcoming smile on his face. "Lovely to see you."

Jefferson mutters an expletive as Graham shuts the cell door behind him.

"Nothing taken or broken, though a couple of your swords might have a few new dings on them."

Gold smiles and turns to David, as if he knows. "Do they now. Handled it well, I bet."

David shifts uncomfortably under Gold's scrutiny and Graham steps in between them, blocking his friend from view. "No harm done."

"What was he after?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees David stiffen and Graham's not sure why, but he knows the mobile and his reaction to it need to stay between them. "Not sure. We'll question him and get back to you."

Gold seems unconvinced, but nods anyway and raises his cane. "Thank you for your service, gentlemen. I'm sure we'll be in touch."

Gold saunters out of the station and David lets out the breath he had been holding. "My office," Graham murmurs as he passes him, leading the other man into the windowed room and shutting the door behind them.

"You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?" He leans his palms on his desk and levels his gaze at his friend.

"I don't know," David whispers, taking a seat and dropping his head into his hands. "It was like… It was like I'd seen it before. Like it was mine. I think – I think it was."

"David – "

"I know it sounds crazy," he interrupts. "I know that. But I've seen it before. And how many of them can there be?" He looks up and Graham reels at how confused and distraught the normally strong and unflappable man looks. "It's mine. I know it is. Somehow, deep in my gut, I know."

"But…" Graham begins as gently as possible, "you've never had a baby."

"I realize that," he snaps, but his tone is wounded and Graham takes no offense.

"Look." Graham leans on the desk and waits until David meets his gaze. "We'll figure this out. I promise you."

David nods and offers a tight smile, before rubbing his forehead and sighing deeply.

"You were pretty good back there. Better than good."

"Dumb luck," the other man replies, but Graham shakes his head.

"Luck had nothing to do with it." He surveys David thoughtfully. "I could use a deputy."

David snorts. "Good one."

"I mean it. I am a one-man sheriff department. I'm shocked Storybrooke isn't the murder capital of the east coast."

"Wait. You're serious?" David cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, looking rather incredulous.

"Very." Graham opens a drawer and tosses the deputy badge on the desk. "I guarantee it'll be more interesting than feeding old cats. And I'll even bring in donuts from time to time."

David's mouth hangs open as he stares at the badge glinting in the office light. Graham can practically see him weighing the pros and cons, and when he flicks his eyes up, the decision has been made.

"I'll have to give the shelter notice."

"Understandable. Two weeks?"

"Uh, sure," David says.

"You don't get the badge yet, but in the meantime, try this on." Graham tosses an empty holster at him and David catches it deftly.

He holds it, slipping one arm in, failing, trying the other arm, before quickly realizing he's putting it on backwards.

"How the hell do you even _wear_ this thing?"

xxxxxx

The sheriff had been lying. Of that, Gold is positive.

But he wouldn't be Rumpelstiltskin if he didn't have contingencies. After all, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had David Nolan so on guard. There are few objects in the shop that would appeal to the young man, and Gold knows it certainly wasn't the windmill.

He picks up the phone and dials the number he's long since memorized. Four rings go by before a voice as smooth as velvet answers.

"Hello?"

"Madame Mayor."

There's silence for a moment. "What do you want?"

"I have a proposition for you," he replies, running his finger over the folder that bears Emma Swan's name.

"What is it?" No games then. Damn. He misses the playful Regina.

"Something to help with your current… _concern_." He smiles and opens the folder tracing the words written on the page with a nail. "By the way, did you ever find out the information on that social worker? The one who dropped the little girl off?"

Silence.

"No? Pity," he replies.

"What do you want for it?"

"How about we discuss the terms over a glass of your famous apple cider."

"Fine."

He begins to hang up, but quickly brings the phone back to his ear for a wicked addendum. "Oh, by the way. The town has a new deputy."

"That's not possible. I didn't approve a new hire."

"Regardless," he waves his hand at the technicality.

She's quiet for a moment, and Gold knows he has her. "Who is it?"

He stands up and grips the phone tighter, a smile sliding across his face. He's going to enjoy this. "David Nolan."

"Son of a bitch." Something crashes and Regina's voice comes back as hard as rock and as sharp as glass. "Bring that woman's name to me now!"

xxxxxx

David trudges up the front walk, the leather holster slung over his shoulder. His body aches from Graham's tackle and Jefferson's attack, and he feels both emotionally and physically drained. If forced to sum up the evening in one word, it would probably fall under the category of 'unreal.'

He stretches his neck and groans as it pops, reaching for the front door when it suddenly swings back to reveal Mary Margaret. She's a sight for sore eyes, to be sure, but what makes her absolute perfection at this moment is that he's not just staring at Mary Margaret. He's staring at Mary Margaret wearing a pair of his socks.

She must notice his gaze, because she immediately goes red, shifting her weight from one wool-covered foot to the other.

"I'm sorry. I got cold and didn't want to mess with your thermostat and I saw them in the pile of clean laundry and I didn't think – "

It's hard to hear what she says after that with his lips pressed firmly to hers.

His mind goes beautifully blank for a full minute as his body takes over, memorizing and categorizing every breath, touch, and sound that has to do with the woman in his arms.

When his brain finally jumpstarts, he pulls away with a gasp, staring into hazel eyes that are deep enough for him to fall into.

"Hi," he finally whispers.

"Hi," she quietly responds.

"Is Emma asleep?"

"She is."

"May I kiss you again?"

"Yes," she breathes out as she steps forward and initiates the brush of their lips.

He truly hadn't planned on it. He opened his mouth to ask how the night went, but his body and soul apparently had a different agenda. He'll tell Mary Margaret that later, but for the moment, she doesn't seem to mind. So he wraps his arms around her, lifting her onto the toes that wear his socks.

And so wrapped up are they in the feel of their lips and the grip of their hands that they don't see the car idling across the street. They don't see the driver grinning as she tilts the side mirror down, getting a better view of them on the porch. And because they don't see her, they'll never know about the folder sitting on the passenger seat bearing the name of the girl sleeping upstairs.

They see each other and nothing more.

 _Yes,_ Regina smiles, thinking back on her meeting with Gold. _Yes this will work out nicely._


	8. Progressions

"That was incredibly forward of me, I'm sorry," David babbles as he pulls his lips away from her for the third time that night.

"I wasn't complaining," she replies, which is such an un-Mary Margaret thing to say that for a moment, she's thrown. Her hands wander from his chest to his waist and he hisses as she reaches his ribs. "Sorry!"

"No, it's okay." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, gingerly inspecting the damage himself. "I sort of got tackled by Graham."

"By Graham?"

"He thought I was a thief." And only then can he really see the cuts and scrapes and rapidly forming bruises in the light of the lamp hanging from the porch ceiling.

She bites her lip, swollen from his kisses and takes his hand, leading him into the house. "Let's get you cleaned up."

The moment has passed – the odd, beautiful, almost magical moment that swept them up on a cool October night. He wants to go back, but something is preventing him. An invisible wall that takes his deepest desires and happiest secrets and locks them away. It's the cruelest kind of punishment – he _knows_ what he wants, he just… can't get there.

So he allows himself to be led into the house and helped into the chair at the kitchen table, because if he can't follow his heart, then following Mary Margaret is certainly the next best thing. She frowns for a moment, eyes glancing around the cabinets.

"Apparently I don't know your kitchen as well as I thought I did. First aid kit?"

"Uh, hall closet," he responds, draping the holster on the back of the chair. Graham actually expects him to _wear_ that thing?

She returns a moment later, giving him a shy smile as she places the kit on the table and makes a noncommittal gesture towards his shirt.

"You, um, you have to take that off."

"Oh." Right. He grabs the hem and tries to tug it over his head, but the short amount of time that he's spent motionless is apparently enough to make his muscles stiff. "Ow."

"Here, here," she says and he feels rather than sees her take hold of the material and help ease it off. "Oh wow. Graham certainly packs a wallop."

He glances down to find his torso black and blue. "Half of that is the fault of the thief. We ended up dueling in the middle of Gold's shop."

She raises an eyebrow and opens the kit. "Dueling?"

"With swords."

"Impressive."

He's not sure if she believes him or not, but she's running her palm along his ribs, feeling for breaks so frankly he doesn't care. What he _does_ care about, is her ability to feel the rapid uptick of his heartbeat as her exploration ends at the scar on his chest.

"Just bruised, I think," she murmurs. 

"Oh, did you get your medical license since last we met?" he teases.

"Watch your words, Mr. Nolan. You're in my care at the moment." She threateningly holds up the bottle of rubbing alcohol and he chuckles before promptly wincing.

"Ow."

"Don't do that."

"Then don't make me laugh."

"Then don't find me funny."

He laughs again and groans in pain, and she rushes forward placing her hands on his shoulders.

"Shh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. No more teasing." She runs her thumb across his creased brow, easing the pained frown from his face. "Better?"

He nods, but words seem to have failed him.

"Good," she whispers, pulling her chair closer and setting the first aid kit in her lap. She makes good on her threat and cleans his cuts. He tries to be a man about it and not flinch, but it really does sting.

It takes two band-aids, an ice pack, and three ibuprofen to deem him 'fit for active duty.' Mary Margaret stands with a proud look at her handiwork and smiles.

"You're patched up and I think that's my cue."

"I can't thank you enough for today. Not only for helping me through my panic attack, but for staying… and watching her."

"It was my pleasure," she says with a soft smile.

They're silent, just drinking each other in, but that weight in the pit of his stomach, that heavy invisible wall is building itself up again and he can't let her leave without attempting some sort of explanation.

"Look, about earlier – " he starts, unsure of how to finish, but Mary Margaret beats him to the punch.

"I understand. You're still married. You've got Emma. It's… complicated. Don't worry about it."

"I wasn't worried," he quietly replies. "Kissing you would never worry me."

And it won't. He knows it.

Her face softens and he wants to lean in again; he feels the autopilot coming back on, but before he can even remind himself to commit this moment to memory, a sniffle comes from the hall and he looks over to find Emma in the doorway, tears streaming down her face.

He's out of his chair in a flash and dropping to his knees in front of her, pain be damned. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

"I had a bad dream and wet the bed and went to find you but you were gone!" her voice breaks into sobs on the last word and his heart splits in two.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry. I'm right here," he murmurs, gathering her to his chest, not caring that her nightgown is damp. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise." He places a kiss on her head and picks her up, grunting lightly as his ribs protest, and carries her to the bathroom.

He knows Mary Margaret has followed him, even though she's been mostly silent since Emma arrived. He can feel her behind him, like the air is charged just from her presence.

"Arms up, squirt," David gently instructs and Emma is quick to comply. He pulls the nightgown over her head and runs warm water in the tub. Emma turns to stick a finger in and test the temperature and Mary Margaret's gasp echoes off the tiled walls.

Emma immediately spins around, cowing against the side of the tub and David holds his palm out, not touching her, as he grabs onto Mary Margaret's wrist.

He's trying to say _I know, I reacted the same way, please please remain calm_ in the gentle but firm way he holds her arm, and it's to Mary Margaret's credit that she doesn't utter a sound. David's eyes, however, never leave Emma's and, after making sure that Mary Margaret has received his message, he inches closer to the little girl.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Nothing bad's gonna get you. I'm here."

Emma's gaze darts from his palm to his face and back again, before she scoots closer and takes his outstretched hand. "I know," she whispers so quietly he almost doesn't hear and she allows him to wrap his arms around her and gently lift her into the tub.

"Too hot?" he asks and she shakes her head. He grabs a bar of soap and lets her wash her body as he takes a cup of water and instructs her to tilt her head back. She complies and he runs the water over her head, threading his fingers through her blond hair.

"I'm, um, I'm going to change the sheets." Mary Margaret's voice is hollow and her expression blank, like something irreplaceable has been taken from her and not put back.

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs.

"I want to."

He nods, understanding a little of both her need to leave the claustrophobic bathroom and her desire simply to _do_ something. "Sheets are in the hall closet upstairs."

She nods briefly and disappears. David watches her go for a moment, before returning his focus to the girl in front of him.

Her bruises are still jarring, but not nearly as debilitating as they were that first time on the bank of the water. When she leaned out to feed the ducks and he grabbed her shirt, simultaneously saving her and shattering himself. It was a truth he didn't know he wasn't ready for, but under the harsh bathroom light, he must face his fears head on.

"Do you want to tell me about the nightmare?"

"It was the bad man."

He didn't ask last time, but he wonders if it's time to tempt fate. "And who's the bad man?"

"Daddy Sullivan. It's what he made us call him," she whispers as she shivers. David's not sure whether it's from the cold or the memory.

He's also not sure if he's ever loathed anybody as much as he loathes this man he's never met. How dare he touch her. How dare he lay a finger on any part of her body. How dare he tarnish a name that David secretly hoped she'd maybe one day reserve for him.

Daddy.

He lets his breath out slowly and tries not to show his shaking hands as he squeezes the excess water from her hair. "And what did he do?"

He holds a towel up and she steps into it, falling into his chest and letting him wrap the fabric around her. "Hurt me."

He runs his hand gingerly up her back, knowing that bruises stain her skin beneath the cotton. "He won't hurt you again. Not while I'm here."

She tilts her head up and smiles for the first time since coming downstairs. "My hero."

It's such an unexpected answer, especially from her five-year-old mouth, that he snorts and holds her a little tighter. "Well, I _did_ practice my sword fighting skills tonight."

"Really?!"

"Uh huh. I wasn't too bad either."

"Can I sword fight?"

Oh, he's just opened a whole new can of worms he's so not prepared for.

"Sure, squirt," he says instead, picking her up – towel and all – and carrying her to the kitchen where the pile of clean laundry still sits. "T-shirt preference?"

And of course, she pulls one of his from the stack and he places her on the floor so she can slip it on. Her head pops up through the collar, making her damp hair stand on end and he places a kiss on her forehead, trying to gauge her temperature with his lips. She's cooler than she's been all day and he feels the kind of relief one must experience after finding out that a terminal diagnosis is false. Fatherhood might very well be the death of him.

"Wanna try and sleep again?"

She bites her lip and he knows the question before she even asks it. He also knows his answer. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Of course," he replies. "Go warm the bed and I'll be up in a second."

She hugs him around one leg and jogs off to the stairs, her little feet thumping as she takes them faster than she should.

He didn't press for further details, but he knows that Sullivan will haunt his nightmares as sure as Mary Margaret will haunt his dreams.

xxxxxx

She tucks the edge of the sheet under the mattress and spreads the comforter down on top. Her throat is tight and she's fighting a losing battle to keep her emotions in check because every time she blinks, she sees the marks that create the most horrific of patterns on the little girl's back.

Emma's familiar footfalls speed up the stairs and Mary Margaret can't help the smile that spreads across her face when the girl proves her assumption right and heads to David's room instead of her own.

She hears David's heavy tread next, and she tries to school her features into something resembling calm. But the moment he appears in the doorway, she crumbles under the weight of his gaze.

"Hey, hey," he says as he steps forward and takes her into his arms. She cries into his chest, consciously trying to keep her sobs quiet.

The abuse of a child is inexcusable in any circumstance, but for some reason – knowing Emma was on the receiving end results in a pain Mary Margaret isn't sure she's felt before or equipped to handle.

"I've got you," he murmurs, the same thing she heard him say to the girl lying safe in his bed, and something inside Mary Margaret heals at knowing he considers them to be part of the same category.

"Did you know?" she finally manages, refusing to pull away just yet. She's drawing too much strength from his arms around hers.

"I knew there had been a troubled past. I didn't know about the bruises until the day she got here."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Live. How do you… live?"

He's silent for a moment and she briefly wonders if she's gone too far. But when his voice comes, it's positively wrecked. "I live knowing that she's here and no longer there. Knowing that I will die before I let him or anyone else touch her again."

His fingers run through her cropped hair and she closes her eyes once more, inhaling deeply. She's not sure how long they stay like that, but he continues to rub circles on her back and she realizes with a pang that no one was there to do this for him when he had this realization.

The thought makes her grip him tighter.

"Thank you for making the bed, even though it won't get much use tonight."

She chuckles and finally lets go, wiping her eyes and pressing cool hands to flushed cheeks. She opens her mouth to tell him she'll drop the dirty sheets in the washer on her way out, but her focus zeros in on something peeking out from under Emma's pillow and all else fades away.

The blanket is worn, but loved; its white a little grey and its ribbon a little frayed. She runs her finger over letters stitched in purple and hugs the fabric to her chest, breathing in a scent as familiar as David's. An improbability as impossible as the first.

"Did you get this for her?" Her voice doesn't quite sound like hers. It seems to echo with the weight of the answer she seeks.

A strange look passes across his face – as if he has the urge to say, _Yes,_ but opts for _No_ instead. "She came with it. From her birth parents, apparently."

" _You have to take her. Take the baby to the wardrobe."_

" _Are you out of your mind?"_

" _No, it's the only way. You have to send her through."_

" _No, no, no, you don't know what you're saying."_

" _No, I do. We have to believe that she'll come back for us. We have to give her her best chance."_

_She waits until he leaves the room, carrying the most precious of cargos, before the first sob rips through her throat._

"No," she whispers, still half in the present and half… not.

"No?" David questions, a smile playing on his lips, unaware of the words and images that just assaulted her psyche.

 _David._ David was in the room. He took a baby, a baby wrapped in _this_ blanket.

"You okay?" His voice is like a cacophony in her already cluttered mind and she backs up as he takes a step closer, stumbling back into the nightstand, nearly knocking the lamp off its base. "Whoa," he places a steadying hand on her waist, "you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. I think – I think I just need some sleep." She's always been a horrible liar and David is eyeing her as if he's just come to that conclusion as well.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh."

She places the blanket almost reverently in his arms, and watches as he stares at it for a moment.

 _Please,_ she finds herself pleading, hoping that he'll meet her halfway and make some sense what she's experiencing, but alas, the moment ends. He glances up and gives her a half-smile she swears is reserved only for her.

"It's late; I can drive you."

"Don't be silly," she swallows hard. "Stay here and tuck her in."

His gaze goes soft at the mention of Emma and he turns almost automatically toward his room, craning to see her curled up in his bed.

"Thank you again for tonight." His sincerity nearly does her in, and she finds herself replying, "Anytime," and truly meaning any single hour of the day or night.

She starts towards the door, but his hand is on her arm before she makes it into the hallway.

"I know I'm… complicated. But if I – I mean, if you wanted to grab a – "

"Yes," she interrupts, too thrilled to be embarrassed about her enthusiasm.

"Yes?" Hope floods blue eyes so much like Emma's. _Too_ much like Emma's.

"To whatever," she breathes. "Yes."


	9. Party Hats

Regina is not a fan of Mondays.

In fact, she's not really a fan of most days – the monotony does wear thin – but Mondays in particular are jarring. And not because of the more recent spectacle of watching David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard time their arrival at school so pathetically precisely, despite the fact they saw each other probably not 24 hours ago. It's ridiculous.

Not, however, as ridiculously delicious as _her_ sheriff in _those_ pants.

"Graham," she nods.

"Madam Mayor," he greets rather curtly. He's been acting strange recently. Ever since… well. Ever since things started changing. He's spent two nights in her bed in the three weeks since Charming's brat turned up and Regina is getting antsy, for lack of a better word.

"I'm cooking lasagna tonight. Care to come over?" Her smile is forward, even if her tone is not.

He gives a tight grin that does nothing to hide the guarded look on his face. "Can't, sorry," he says, sounding not very sorry at all. "Have other plans."

"Do you, now." Her smile slips the smallest fraction as he tips a non-existent hat and continues toward the school.

Well. Give it a day.

She's quite confident he won't be singing the same tune come tomorrow.

xxxxxx

He can't even let an awkward confrontation derail his high spirits as he whistles on his way up the path already swarming with children.

It is October 23rd, the sun is out, and Graham has a very important job to do.

The hallway is general chaos as kids collect their books and stuff them into their bags, lockers bang shut, and teachers yell at students not to run. Graham holds his arms up as children swarm around him in the end of day rush.

"Hi, Sheriff," some of them call but they've disappeared before he can offer a greeting in return.

Finally, he reaches his destination and peeks through the window, wondering how much trouble his charge has gotten up to in the three minutes since the bell rang.

"But _why_ do I have to wait here?" Emma asks, hands on her hips and head tilted, studying the teacher with a skeptical gaze.

"Because someone is coming to get you," Mrs. Lynch replies with the patience of a saint.

"Yes, _David_ is," she states. "And he always waits for me outside."

Graham opens the door and smiles at the teacher, before turning and winking at Emma.

"Milady," he says, bowing slightly, "I have come to collect you."

She cocks her head as she stares up at him, scrunching her nose slightly. It might be the most adorable thing he's ever seen.

"I'm not supposed to go with strangers," she replies and Graham tries _really_ hard not to be offended.

"I'm not a stranger! I'm Mr. Graham!"

Her eyes narrow in a way that is so distinctly _David,_ Graham has to pause a minute and remind himself that she isn't actually his daughter.

Finally, she concedes. "You still talk funny."

"But I have a badge." He points to his belt and she seems to consider.

"Okay."

Gotta love the logic of a six-year-old. "Where's your bag?" he asks and she holds up a backpack that would barely fit one of his boots. "Lovely. Got your homework?"

"Yes," she grumbles, throwing a mutinous gaze at Mrs. Lynch, who merely smiles in return.

"And we're off," Graham announces. "Thank you, Mrs. Lynch. A pleasure as always."

Graham pretends not to notice her blush as he leads Emma out the door, down the hall, and into the sunlight.

"So how come you're getting me?" she asks before her expression suddenly goes panicked. "Is David okay?"

"David's fine," he assures.

"But he _always_ comes to get me. He said he'd always be there – "

"He's absolutely fine, I promise."

It's clear though that she doesn't quite trust him, as she pales and begins to hyperventilate.

"Emma. Love, you've gotta calm down," he pleads, dropping to his knees in front of her. "I promise you, nothing is wrong with David. He… had to take care of something."

He desperately wants to tell her, but doesn't want to ruin the surprise.

"Emma," he licks his lips and frowns, trying to figure out how on earth to approach this topic of conversation. "David is my best friend and I care a great deal about him. You know that, right?"

She nods, but tears still swim in her eyes.

"Well, David cares a great deal about you. And you make him very happy. Happier than he's been in a very, very long time. So that makes you pretty special in my book." Graham smiles and taps her nose. "So if you could learn to trust me, maybe someday even _like_ me, that would be great, because I really like _you_."

The hesitation in Emma's eyes slowly dissipates and a shy smile starts to form. He counts it as a major victory when she slides her hand in his, effectively telling him that she will follow wherever he may choose to lead.

The solemnity of the prior moment rapidly disappears as she begins to swing his hand, skipping every couple of steps to keep up with his long strides. "Wait… home's that way." She points in the opposite direction.

"Well spotted. We're not going home."

"We're not?"

"Nope." He winks at her again, but she merely gives him an unimpressed eyebrow arch. Her expression becomes more and more confused though when he leads her across the street and under the garden arch of Granny's diner.

"Mr. Graham, what are we – " she trails off as he opens the door and "SURPRISE" echoes around the restaurant.

Graham is waiting for the scream, the laughter, the sheer _joy_ that a surprise birthday party brings out in a six-year-old, but nothing comes. David, Mary Margaret, Granny, Ruby – they're all smiling and wearing rather ridiculous party hats, but Emma's hand slips from his and it's the first clue that something is very much wrong.

"Emma?" David asks, concern clear in his tone. Of course he's the first person to notice the girl's distress.

Emma's eyes sweep from David to the 'Happy Birthday' banner hanging above the bar to Graham, before sliding back to David and she promptly bursts into tears and runs from the diner.

The partygoers stand stock still for a moment – completely stunned that their surprise had the complete opposite effect of what they intended.

"All right, Daddy. Duty calls," Graham murmurs, and David sprints out of the restaurant with a pained look on his face.

"Well, that went well," Ruby deadpans, turning back to her work and pulling her hat off as Mary Margaret approaches Graham.

"Did something happen?"

"No, she was fine on the way here. A little mistrusting, but fine."

Mary Margaret is craning to see if she can catch a glimpse of them through the bushes, but they seem to have disappeared around the corner.

"Come on," Graham says, slinging an arm around Mary Margaret's shoulder and spinning her towards the punch. "David will talk her down from the ledge. Now where's the cake?"

xxxxxx

It doesn't take long to catch up to her.

In fact, she hasn't really gone every far at all. David turns the corner to find Emma plopped down on the curb, face buried in her knees, and sobs shaking her tiny, oh so fragile body.

"Em?" He slowly approaches, but stops a few feet away. "Emma?"

"Uh huh?" she warbles.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"You always say not to cross the road unless accompanied by an adult, so I got here and couldn't go any further."

His heart nearly bursts at the response.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, but why'd you run away from the party?" He chances another step closer and when she doesn't move, he sits down next to her on the cold cement. "Did you not like it?"

She shakes her head and blond curls tumble over her knees. He still can't see her face, but her sobs have quieted, at least.

"It was great," she mumbles.

He's completely at a loss. "Then… why the tears, squirt?"

Finally she lifts her head and his heart constricts at sight of her swollen eyes. "It's my first birthday party."

_Oh._

David schools his dumbstruck features and gives her a half smile. "Then we better make it the best party ever."

He thanks someone somewhere for allowing his voice to come out steady, even as his fists clench at his sides. He thinks about a wish he's been dreaming of more frequently; it's a wish to whisk Emma away and start completely over. From baby, to toddler, to tiny adult and bring her up spoiled and cared for and _loved._ David wishes for that more than he's wished for anything else, but he knows it's a pipedream. The girl before him is broken but not irreparably. She _is_ spoiled and cared for and loved. Now.

He leans down and places a kiss on her forehead, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"It's not my birthday, but I feel like I got the best present."

"What was it?"

"You."

She blushes and presses her face into his chest as he chuckles. "I mean it, squirt. You're all I could've asked for."

"For serious?"

He laughs at her word choice and pulls her sideways into him. "For serious. Now come on. Granny made a cake and…" he pauses for dramatic effect, "there might even be a present or two with your name them."

She gasps and jumps up, tugging David along with her. He stands as she holds her arms out and he obliges by lifting her into his. Soon, she'll be too old for this. Soon, she might not even be with him. So he's going to take advantage of every available opportunity and he does so by hugging her slightly closer to his chest.

"You still have your hat on," she murmurs into his shoulder, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

He glances up and finds that she's correct, much to his chagrin. He just had a heart-to-heart that he thought was going particularly well, while wearing an orange glittery cone on his head.

"No!" Emma shouts as he reaches up to tug it off. "Leave it."

"You don't mind being seen in public with me like this?" he jokes.

"It's my party and I want you to have a hat."

He smiles as he adjusts the hat so it sits at a jaunty angle. "Then a hat I shall have."

His daughter giggles – his daughter for all intents and purposes – and in that moment, he vows to bring forth that sound from her as frequently as humanly possible.

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret bites her nail as she paces from the bar to the table and back again.

It's been only a few minutes since David went flying out the door after Emma, but really, they should be back by now. Mary Margaret is so busy looking towards the window, trying to catch a glimpse of their return that she nearly runs smack into Graham.

"Oh, geez. Sorry," she mutters, finally glancing up and snorting at his attire.

He's donning a bright blue party hat and the silver streamers that stick out of the top bobble every time he brings a bite of chocolate cake up to his mouth.

"You were supposed to wait for Emma to blow out the candles."

"Granny made two. Snuck me a piece of the extra," he mumbles around a mouthful and winks.

She rolls her eyes and glances at Granny, knowing full well the woman as a soft spot for the young wayward men of the town.

"They're fine, Mary Margaret. Stop worrying," Graham groans. "You're bumming me out."

"Sorry," she replies as she steals his fork and pops the bite of cake into her mouth.

"Oi! I don't know you well enough to share cake. Only David is allowed to steal my food."

"And Emma?" she counters.

Graham's face softens. "Emma can steal anything she damn well pleases."

Mary Margaret laughs as the bell chimes over the door, promptly causing half of the diner to yell "SURPRISE" once more. The second attempt is definitely more successful than the first, as Emma smiles from David's arms, before burying her face shyly in his neck.

"What do you say?" he whispers and Mary Margaret can hear a quiet "Thank you" come from somewhere.

"Come here, sweetheart." Granny bustles over to David and lifts Emma out of his arms. "I have a surprise for you."

"A hat?"

"And much more," Granny responds and Emma's eyes go as wide as saucers upon spying the cake.

David shakes his head, but his eyes fondly watch the girl as she practically bounces over to the table of presents. Mary Margaret thinks she could do this all day – watching him. More precisely, watching him watch her. Something comes across his face that defies all description, and Mary Margaret thinks it's one of the most wondrous things she's ever seen.

"Looks good on you," she murmurs and he jumps, startled.

"What?"

She says, "The hat," but she means the look.

"Oh," he blushes as he adjusts it, but doesn't pull it off. Mary Margaret is sure Emma had something to do with that. "Just one of the many favors on offer here at Chez Granny." He raises his eyebrows as he pulls a string of purple beads from his pocket. "I think she went a little overboard at the party store."

Her hand reaches out for the beads, before something seizes every limb in her body. She's been here before. She's done _this_ before. The necklace dangles over her open palm, swinging gently from left to right, but the purple orbs are not what she sees.

No, she sees silver. A silver pendant sliding over a gloved hand, its meaning holding more weight than the wooden cart that carried them to this spot.

" _We're going to have a child."_

" _What?"  
_

" _We're going to have a child!"  
_

" _Is… there something I need to know?"  
_

" _I mean, someday."_

" _Well, of course we are!"_

"Mary Margaret?"

"Yes?" she whispers, eyes finally sliding from the party favor to David's concerned gaze.

"You've been doing that a lot recently."

"Sorry, I just…" _have had a lot on my mind,_ she wants to say, but the excuse sounds cheap, even to her own ears. "Have we… have we ever met before?"

It sounds ridiculous, she knows it does, but she asks anyway.

"Before I dropped Emma off at school?" He frowns, as if truly thinking about it when most normal people would just say 'no' without a second thought. "I don't think so. I mean… I've been here my whole life, so… I suppose it's possible."

"But I mean have we met… elsewhere?"

"Elsewhere?" He looks confused, and yet frustrated, as if what she's saying sparks familiarity just out of his reach.

"I just…" she stops and swallows hard, wondering why on earth she's so overcome with emotion at a six-year-old's birthday party. "I just get this feeling… when I'm with you. It's like I've met you before."

There it is. That smile she swears is just for her. "Likewise."

And all of a sudden, she gets the sudden urge to lean in and brush her lips to his, but this is a highly public place and a highly inappropriate time, so she squashes the desire and turns to steal Graham's plate out of his hand, stuffing a bite of chocolate cake in her mouth.

"Oi! Stop doing that!"

"Oh, learn to share. Emma did," David teases as Graham punches him in the shoulder.

"That is Granny's cake. It is a precious commodity in these parts." He stalks off to grab another piece and David rolls his eyes.

"She'll make another one tomorrow," he says as he nods towards Mary Margaret's commandeered plate. "So what does a guy have to do to snag a bite?"

Mary Margaret's knees go weak. _So many things,_ she wants to reply, but she merely holds out her fork and raises an eyebrow. "I learned to share a long time ago."

"Indeed," David replies as his lips close around the bite and Mary Margaret curses whomever suddenly turned the thermostat up.

"David!" Emma yells, effectively breaking the moment, which is probably for the best, since Mary Margaret was about a moment away from throwing him down on the nearest table, which is _so_ not like her.

"Yeah, squirt?"

"Can I open this?" She's holding a messily wrapped present in her arms, already shaking it to see if she can tell what the brightly colored paper is hiding.

"Sure thing," David responds, before turning to Mary Margaret once more. "Thanks for the bite."

"Anytime." _Oh my._

It takes Emma roughly five seconds to rip through the paper and tear open the box, and she gasps at what she finds.

"For me?"

"For you."

She pulls out a red leather jacket from its tissue-paper confines and holds it reverently in front of her, mouth hanging slightly open.

"It's just like yours."

"They didn't make them in little kid sizes, so you'll just have to grow into it."

She looks up at him, eyes shining, and the whole diner has gone silent almost out of respect for the enormity of this moment.

"Thank you," Emma whispers as she hurls herself at him, and Mary Margaret has to place a steadying hand on his back to keep him from toppling over.

"You're welcome," he replies, lifting her up and placing a kiss on her cheek. "Wear it well." He places her back down on the floor and she scurries over to watch Ruby place candles around the cake.

Five minutes and two renditions of 'Happy Birthday' later (Leroy was off-key during the first), Emma's face is covered in icing and Mary Margaret can't help but snap a picture as the girl sits in David's lap, head thrown back in laughter as David looks on, utterly besotted with the perfect being in his arms.

She already knows which frame she'll put it in, before she wraps it up and gives it to him.

"Miss Blanchard, is this from you?"

Mary Margaret looks over to where Emma is holding up a pair of wooden swords, and David's eyes widen as he gazes at the gift.

"It is."

'Wow,' Emma mouths, holding them up extra high for David to see.

"What do you say, squirt?"

Unlike her reaction to the leather jacket, Emma walks slowly over to Mary Margaret, takes her hand and tugs her down until they're eye-level with each other. "Thank you so much," she simply says, placing a chocolate kiss on Mary Margaret's cheek.

And that – that's when the pain starts.

" _I'm Snow. Snow White."_

"David look!" Emma runs off, brandishing her swords as Graham lifts the cake out of harm's way.

" _Why were you kissing that man in the stable? You're to marry my father. You're to be my mother."_

"Looking great, baby," he responds.

"And I can practice in my leather jacket!"

" _You don't know or trust me yet. Hey, I get it. I just need something to call you."_

" _Uh... Margaret. Erm, no. Uh, Mary. Mary."_

The bell over the door rings, merely adding to the diner's cacophony, but not for Mary Margaret. Every whisper, every murmur is like a freight train through her ears.

" _You're a girl?"  
_

" _Woman."_

The woman is young, nervously pushing her glasses up her nose, and looking desperately like she wants to be everywhere but here.

"Hi, I'm looking for David Nolan," she says, just as Mary Margaret reaches out for the nearest stable surface as images and voices slam into her head.

" _Aren't you a real Prince Charming."_

" _I have a name, you know."  
_

" _Don't care. 'Charming' suits you."  
_

"Here," David – Charming– _David_ says and Mary Margaret has the desperate urge to tell him to run. He doesn't seem to need the warning, though. He knows who this woman is. And he is not happy to see her. "Miss Gordon."

Miss Gordon's eyes flick to Emma and a faint smile appears at the sight of her covered in chocolate and wearing a green hat.

This isn't right. She shouldn't be here. David. James. David. Charming.

_Snow._

_Snow White._

"Mr. Nolan, if I could have a moment of your time?" Miss Gordon asks, and it seems to echo in her ears as Snow comes back to herself. David places a hand on Emma's head as he moves slowly toward the door and Snow grabs his arm as he passes.

"Charming?" she whispers, desperation hanging on each syllable.

"What is?" he replies and her heart shatters.

"Nothing."

He gives her an odd look, but places a reassuring hand on her arm, despite the fact that he's swallowing against the fear she can see plainly in his eyes.

She watches him follow this Miss Gordon out of the diner, and it's the last thing she sees before it all goes black.


	10. Aftermaths

He's not sure he can do this. He's not sure he can physically survive what the woman in front of him has come here to say.

Julia Gordon adjusts her glasses, the third time she's done so since they stepped outside, and resolutely avoids looking back at the diner. If David is right in his assumptions, it's because Emma is staring at them through the window, wondering why Miss Gordon would come all the way to her birthday party only to take David and leave once more.

"Please don't." The words come out of their own accord and he's only slightly ashamed at how broken they sound. "Don't." _take her away from me._

She stares at him, regret darkening her every feature as she inhales deeply, preparing him. And perhaps herself.

"Mr. Nolan – "

But it's all she gets to say as the door to Granny's bursts open and Graham stands there carrying a limp Mary Margaret in his arms.

"David!"

No. David definitely knows he cannot survive this.

xxxxxx

" _Jesus, David, calm down."_

" _What happened?"_

" _She can borrow my leather jacket if it'll make her feel better."_

" _Graham, what the hell happened?"_

" _David, don't make me lock you up. I will."_

" _Mr. Nolan – "_

" _Not now,_ please. _"_

" _David, you're scaring Emma."_

The words come to her in a haze, carried over breath and breeze, echoing in a mind that has not quite come back to itself.

Her body hurts. Her joints, her bones, her head, her very soul. Pain thumps with every beat of her pulse, the only clue that she's alive at all. A groan slips through her lips, jarring in the previous moment's silence and yet her eyelids feel like they hold the weight of the world, unable to carry out even the small command to blink.

"Mary Margaret?"

His voice is familiar twice over, bringing with it the image of a badge and a bow. They contrast and yet one cannot exist without the other.

"Graham?"

"Jesus, Mary Margaret, you scared me." His tone radiates relief and she feels him take her hand a moment later.

Fear. She remembers being frightened of him once. Not anymore.

" _You're not a knight, are you."_

" _What makes you say that?"_

Her eyes finally do her bidding and open, bringing a brightly lit room and her exhausted protector into focus.

"What happened?" she croaks.

"You passed out."

" _She picked you to take me. Why?"_

" _I think you know."_

"No, what happened to David? Was that the social worker?"

At the mention of the woman, Graham's features darken. She sees the Huntsman in him now.

"She took Emma."

And then Snow's world drops from beneath her feet. Emma.

Her Emma. _Their_ Emma.

"She took her? She just… she's gone?" Her heart drums against her sternum and she's removing the wire monitor from her finger before she even registers Graham trying to grab her wrists.

"Mary Margaret, stop. Stop!" His voice cracks like a whip, even though it's tinged with grief. He doesn't resemble the happy-go-lucky guy who was only too content to feast on Granny's cake and wear a blue party hat because a little girl asked him to. "Stop, please. I already locked up David. Don't make me lock you up too."

"Locked up?" her lips mouth the words, but her voice deserts her. Charming. Her Charming. She needs to be with him now. He must be hurting so utterly completely. "Take me to him."

"Mary Margaret – " His loyalty is warring with itself. Loyalty to the heart and loyalty to the badge. She's seen that particular conflict of desire and duty on his face before.

" _Sound this when you need help."_

" _What?"_

" _It's a whistle that will bring you aide. You'll be led to safety. Now go. Run."_

" _I don't understand. You're not going to kill me?"_

" _Run!"  
_

"Graham." She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands on shaky feet. "I need to see my husband."

Perhaps he doesn't hear her. Perhaps he doesn't have the energy to point out her mistake. Perhaps the Hunstman buried within him knows she speaks the truth.

Either way, he doesn't correct her and Snow White is more grateful that Mary Margaret could ever show.

xxxxxx

His voice is hoarse but that doesn't stop him screaming.

"Graham! Open the door!" He punches the wall and groans in pain, cradling his fist in his hand as his knuckles bleed.

"Feel better?"

David rolls his eyes and suppresses the urge to ram the other man's head between the bars; an urge he's been suppressing for the past 39 minutes and 12 seconds.

"What. Cat got your tongue?" The man – _Jefferson,_ David recalls – chuckles at his own joke and cocks his head, narrowing his eyes. "Bet you wished you had believed me."

"What?" David snaps, thoroughly finished with the topic at hand. There are only two things he's wishing for at the moment and only one has any chance at showing up. And that's only if she's discharged.

As for the other… well. Thinking about Emma causes a bone-deep pain that hurts from the marrow out. A pain he's not sure he'll survive if forced to live with her absence for much longer.

"I had a daughter too, once," the man says, and it's the sorrow in his voice that brings David's gaze to his.

"She wasn't my daughter," he gruffly replies and Jefferson smiles sadly.

"Wasn't she." He closes his eyes against what must be a thousand lifetimes of hurt, if going by the lines that crease his face. "She has your eyes."

David scoffs and yet something cuts him. Deep. "So they say."

"You need to believe me." The sorrow is replaced by desperation and Jefferson grasps the bars that separate their cells like a drowning man holding onto a buoy. "Please. For all our sakes. Believe."

"In what?" David's voice cracks and a tear slips down his cheek. What little strength or dignity he had leaves at the slightest sign of weakness. "They took her. They just… without even explaining. You can't begin to know what that feels like."

Jefferson is silent for a moment, his features going as stoic as David's ever seen them.

"Try me."

xxxxxx

"But I want _David!_ "

Julia didn't think it was possible for her heart to break into smaller pieces, but time and again, Emma proves her wrong. Her every shout is like a pickaxe to her chest, chiseling away the armor she knew she'd need for this trip.

She doesn't want to do this. She's not sure she _can_ do this.

"Take me back!" Emma is wailing in the back seat, pounding the windows, with cake still smeared on her face and a crumbled party hat bobbing on her head.

Julia can't go far with her. They need to collect her stuff, and there's the small matter of her foster father being behind bars, but not (for once) for the usual reasons.

David was protecting her. Was trying to save her from the heartbreak he knew Julia was about to bring. And his efforts put him in a metal cell, for his own sake more than anything else.

"Emma, please calm down," she begs, glancing in the rearview mirror to find the girl practically purple with barely contained sobs. " _Please_."

"I want David," she says over and over, until Julia is sure she'll hear it in her sleep in that same haunting, heartbreaking tone.

Too many times has a happy ending been snatched out of Emma's outstretched fingertips. Too many times has Julia seen tears stain the girl's cheeks. When is enough enough? When does fate finally decide it's had its fun?

Julia had hoped to calm Emma down by riding the car around town, but it's done nothing to soothe her sobs. But having a tantrum in an enclosed vehicle is slightly better than having Sheriff Humbert banging down her temporary door at Granny's.

She had to come, she reminds herself, as her heart shatters further. A complaint was filed, from the mayor of all people, and she was dispatched. Her job is on the line, but as Emma hiccups for the third time in the last minute, she realizes she might have her priorities thoroughly out of order.

"Emma, sweetheart, listen to me," she pleads as she slows the car to a stop somewhere by the water. The girl quiets but her hiccups and sniffles still pierce Julia like a dagger. "I had to come to get you. It's the rules. But I promise I will do all I can to get you back to David. Okay?"

"You promise?"

"I promise." And she means it.

In her lifetime, she's made a lot of empty promises, but that man, whose devastated eyes will haunt her until her dying day, belongs with the little girl whose entire world revolves around the life they've built together.

The blue bedding and the wooden swords. The red leather jacket and the green birthday hat.

Emma deserves that kind of generosity.

And Julia will be damned if she's the one to take it from her.

xxxxxx

Snow feels like vomiting.

Graham holds his elbow out for her to take as he gently guides her out of the hospital (against doctor's orders), but she wants nothing more than to run full tilt in the direction of the station.

"Graham…" she starts, knowing she's wading into dangerous waters, but needing to see if she can pull the Huntsman out of him the way someone pulled the princess out of her. "Have we… met before?"

He frowns as he guides her across the street. "You mean before you swooped in and knocked my best friend off his high horse?"

She has to bite her lip to keep from telling him it was the other way around.

"Before that. Before… all of that." _The curse, this land, this… identity._ Before it all.

"No, I don't think so." He raises an eyebrow and reaches over to lift a lock of hair off her forehead. "Are you sure you didn't hit your on the way down?"

Despite the circumstances, she can't help but smile. It's nice to see him laughing and making jokes. In their land, he was so serious. So stoic. It warms her heart to know that the man who wore a piece of bright orange cardboard on his head for two hours was buried within her hunter all along.

Now if only she could merge the two.

"I still think we've met before. I had… longer hair." Her voice modulates, going up at the end, silently asking if any of this rings a bell, but he stares blankly back at her.

"David's gonna want you admitted again. As soon as he finds out you discharged yourself, you know he is."

Graham's probably right, but Snow can't focus on that at the moment. The mention of 'David' has taken all precedence in her heart and in her mind.

David. James. Charming. Husband. Father.

All of his incarnations slam into her at once, each memory as bright and as real as the David Nolan of the past few weeks, and all fight for dominance within her. But she cannot choose and so she opens her heart up to all of them at once and she stumbles sideways into Graham at the sheer _love_ that seems to glow out of her every pore.

'That's it," he states, stopping dead right beside the police cruiser. "I'm taking you back."

"What? You can't!"

"I'm sheriff. I can."

"But…" she struggles as she eyes the station, knowing her husband – her _unknowing_ husband – waits just inside those doors. "I think I need to rest. Walking all the way back would only make me feel worse."

She's a horrible liar, but at least Graham doesn't know her as well as David and so doesn't see her fiction for what it is.

"Fine," he relents, offering his elbow once more (ever the gentleman) and ushering her inside the lobby. "Stay here."

"No."

"Mary Margaret." He sounds exasperated and the Mary Margaret in her feels contrite but the Snow in her wants to smack that look right off his face.

"David just had his daughter – " her breath hitches, "his _daughter_ taken away from him. You have to let me go to him."

Her eyes swim, but she refuses to blink, unwilling to let a single tear fall to her cheek. Not yet.

There will be time for that later.

And she can see the moment the words sink in for him. She can actually pinpoint the second his heart breaks for the friend he had to lock up for his own safety and sanity. And without a word, he nods, holding the door to the bullpen open for her as she steels herself to face her husband as his wife for the first time in… But wait. It hasn't been 28 years.

She stops suddenly, causing Graham to bump into her back. Then what…? How is she awake? How is Emma _here_?

"Mary Margaret?" His voice stops her internal line of questioning and finally she gazes at him – her Charming – gripping the bars so tightly, his knuckles turn white.

"That's not her name," the man one cell over sing-songs and David lets out a low growl, but keeps his gaze on hers.

"Are you okay?"

She nods, finding herself utterly speechless now that he's in front of her. Her feet carry her closer, until all she has to do is reach out and let her fingertips brush along his temple.

He closes his eyes and leans into her palm, exhaling a shuddering breath that carries on it every blow of the past few hours.

"They discharged you?"

"Not exactly."

He gives her a look he's given her countless times before for many reasons he cannot remember. The thought makes her heart ache.

"They couldn't hold me there," she reasons.

"And _you_ can't hold me here," David directs at Graham.

"I think you'll find I can do pretty much anything I damn well please," he replies. 

"Hey, if I was in the mayor's bed every night, I bet I could too," David spits out.

Graham narrows his eyes against the anger that briefly flashes in them, before sighing heavily and leaning on the bars. "I should punch you for that, but I know it's the grief talking."

"Fuck you."

"Apology accepted," Graham wryly replies. "Be nice, or I won't get you ice for that hand."

"You can't hold me in here," he says again and Graham nods.

"I know. I can't. But David, you would have torn Granny's apart. You scared the shit out of the social worker. God knows how badly you scared Emma!" David's face contorts with emotion, but Graham ploughs on. "If you weren't so concerned over Mary Margaret, I truly didn't know what you were going to do. And that scared me. I was scared for you," he says with finality, even as he pulls the keys from his pocket. "So I locked you up so I could take her to the hospital." He nods as Mary Margaret and David's grip on her hand tightens. "Now if you're good, I'll let you out."

"Do I get out on good behavior, too?" Jefferson asks and Graham picks up a stapler from a nearby desk and tosses it at the bars with a resounding clang. "I'll take that as a 'no."

Snow spares the man a glance as she steps closer to the bars. David hangs his head, his whole body shaking with the emotion of the day. She traces the outline of his fingers where they grip the bars, missing the gold band that used to reside on his fourth finger. The gold band that claimed him as hers.

"Where is she?" he finally croaks. At Graham's silence, David raises his head. "I know she's still here; where is she?"

"You can't go to her."

"Graham."

"She's at Granny's. They'll stay there overnight and get her things in the morning."

David nods, but it has nothing to do with acceptance. Snow moves over to Graham and gently takes the keys from his palm.

"Let him out."

"He can't go to her."

"He won't," she replies, even though every cell in her body is begging to be reunited with her own flesh and blood.

The situation is precarious at best. She cannot go bursting into the bed and breakfast and grab her daughter under one arm when no one else remembers she ever even had a child. When her own _husband_ doesn't remember holding her hand through her birth. Going after Emma puts the entire town at risk, and as much as Snow desperately needs her family, she cannot do that to her friends.

Graham allows the keys to leave his hand and Snow walks over and slides them into the lock, turning it with a click. The door opens and Graham eyes David like a deer about to bolt.

"They have to take her," Graham reasons. David moves forward, opening his mouth to protest, but Graham clamps his hand over it, both silencing him and effectively restraining him. "But we can fight it." David struggles but Graham holds him tighter. "Adopt her. You know you want to. You've been thinking it since the day that girl arrived."

Snow has to turn around to hide the tears she can no longer fight. He shouldn't have to adopt her. He shouldn't have to fill out paperwork for a child that was born with his features and promptly placed in his arms.

Snow composes herself and turns to find Graham no longer restraining her husband, but rather hugging him. And David holds on so tightly, Snow swears Regina's curse couldn't even break them apart.

"At least let me say goodbye," David says as he pulls away. His voice breaks and Snow has to close her eyes against the sound.

She remembered what Grumpy said. She remembered how Charming begged them to open her casket so he could say one final farewell.

" _At least let me say goodbye."_

But true love's kiss can't fix this.

"I'll see what I can do," Graham says.

Her thumb moves to wipe a phantom tear, but her finger comes away smeared with chocolate instead.

 _True Love's Kiss._ Emma had kissed her on the cheek, and the curse crumbled around her. Emma loved her. _Her_ Emma loved her. Her daughter _kissed_ her.

"I can't go back there. The house is full of her stuff, I just…" David trails off and Snow immediately steps forward, taking his hand.

"Come with me."

If she cannot claim her daughter, then at least she'll comfort her husband. He's in there somewhere…

She just has to find him.

xxxxxx

He doesn't remember much about the walk from the station to her apartment. In fact, he couldn't even tell you her address if asked.

All he's aware of is the numbness of his body, save for two locations: where his heart beats in his chest, and where Mary Margaret holds his hand. The pain in one and the warmth in the other are doing nothing to stave off the cold nothingness that seems to be taking over the rest of his body, but for the time being, he'll take the pain and the warmth in those sealed areas just for proof that he is, in fact, still alive.

"Rory, off," Mary Margaret says and only then does David look down to find the puppy nipping at his knees in the darkened apartment.

He drops down, unable to hold himself up any longer and allows the dog to leap into his arms. "Hey buddy, I missed you too." His voice sounds wrecked and it's no wonder Graham locked him up. He must have seemed completely insane.

He'll have to thank him later.

"Here." Mary Margaret presses a glass of water into his hand and he takes it with a small smile, a smile she's slow to return. He marvels at the fact that this woman always seems to know exactly what he needs; he stands on shaky legs and stares at her in the moonlight, pretty sure he's never seen anything more beautiful.

She seems to be drinking him in as well, her eyes flicking over every feature and lingering on the scar that mars his chin.

"You should get some rest," she whispers, as if speaking any louder would shatter what little peace they've found. He nods and heads over to the couch, but before he can even drop onto it, she's taking his hand once more and leading him to the bedroom.

She gently pushes him onto the edge of the bed, and for a moment, he's not sure what her next step is. To others, it would be obvious, but this is Mary Margaret Blanchard. She has never been particularly commanding or overtly obvious. So he sits silently, allowed her to kneel in front of him and run the tips of her fingers over his cheekbone before tracing his jawline. She's studying him, committing every flaw to memory, and David lets her, because for as broken as he feels, he has a sense that her every touch is slowly healing him.

There's something in her eyes – something different. The Mary Margaret in front of him is not the same woman he stole a bite of cake from at the party today.

And he finds he's okay with that. More than okay.

Her fingers move from his jaw to his ear and then to his collar, following the fabric around the front, until she pauses on the first button. It pops free with the gentlest of tugs and she continues down until his shirt falls opens, revealing the white tee beneath.

He doesn't say a word, playing along with the unspoken rules of this incredibly delicate game.

She pushes the shirt off his shoulders and immediately reaches for the hem of the tee. It's off before he registers a draft and she's back to tracing the marks on his skin. He finds himself watching her just as acutely as she studies him, registering the emotion on her face as her finger reaches the scar on his shoulder before traveling to the one on his abdomen. He watches her swallow hard, sees the tears pool in her eyes, and because he knows without a doubt that he loves this woman, he reaches forward and tucks a short piece of hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek which fits perfectly in his palm.

Finally, she leans forward and places a chaste yet lasting kiss on his forehead, before brushing feather light touches against each of his eyelids. She's not shy at all as she stands and turns, silently asking him to unzip her dress. He obliges, still unsure where all of this is going, and watches as she allows the fabric to fall to the floor and lithely steps out of it.

"Shoes," she whispers, nodding to his feet and he follows her gaze a little dumbly as she moves to the dresser and pulls out pajamas. Oh. Right. Shoes.

His fingers are uncoordinated as he attempts to unlace the boots, but eventually he gets them off.

She stands before him in a simple cotton nightgown and gestures vaguely to his jeans. His luck is not much better with the belt and it takes him three tries before he successfully undoes the buckle. The jeans drop to the floor and he steps out of them with hardly the grace she did, but she doesn't seem to notice as she pulls the covers on the bed back and waits for him to meet her on the other side.

"Get in," she finally says when he doesn't move and so he slides in, still a little unsure, and freezes as she joins him. "I won't bite."

The comment draws a smile and his facial muscles hurt from not having made that movement in a while. He's not sure what he expects – perhaps her to stay on the left side and him to stay on the right with an invisible line down the middle – but it's definitely not what actually happens.

She props herself up on a pillow and reaches for him, gently easing his head to her chest. He's stiff at first, but eventually allows his cheek to rest just below her collarbone as her heart drums a steady beat in his ear. It might be the most comforting sound he's ever heard.

It takes a moment, but eventually he slides one arm under her as the other drapes over her stomach, pulling her closer and inhaling her more. She's placing small kisses in his hair and, yes, he thinks he could pretty much stay here for all eternity.

No words are said. No words are needed. And if she feels his tears drip onto her skin, she doesn't say a word.

He wonders what will happen tonight if Emma has a nightmare. He wonders if Miss Gordon picked up her blanket from the house before taking her to Granny's. He wonders if she'll ever have banana pancakes again, and he wants to ask – to whisper his fears into the night, but his wonderings have stolen even the smallest of his words.

Nothing is as terrifying as what the dawn will bring, so he holds Mary Margaret a little bit tighter, marveling at the fact that the woman in his arms is singlehandedly holding him together. Marveling at how this feels so very, very right and, as he drifts off, why the ring on her middle finger looks so very, very familiar.


	11. Do Overs

Gold limps down the sidewalk, watching Ruby place a comforting hand on Granny's shoulder as the older woman dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

He wants to say he doesn't understand their pain, but he sympathizes with David Nolan more he'd like. He knows what it is to lose a child.

"Quite a mess you've made here, dearie," he drawls as he sidles up to Regina who watches the proceedings with barely controlled glee.

Gold's enjoying this, sure – not as much as Regina, perhaps, but he can appreciate the chaos. The sheriff leads the social worker and the girl from the bed and breakfast in the direction of the Nolans'. The Huntsman is carrying the little girl, her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms clasped behind his neck.

The sight makes Gold feel something he hasn't felt in a very, very long time: remorse.

"You know he won't stop. Charming, that is. He'll fight for her. He'll find her." Indeed, the pauper/prince's 'never give up' attitude has always been annoyingly endearing.

"Not necessarily," Regina drawls and immediately alarm bells start going off.

"What's up your sleeve?" He narrows his eyes, his grip tightening on the handle of his cane.

"Something you can help me with, dear."

"And why should I do that," he snaps.

And then Regina says four words that make him reconsider his whole life up until this moment.

"Because I've got _her._ "

xxxxxx

Snow picks at the blanket as she stares at her husband sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed. She's still trying to reconcile the Mary Margaret with her Snow; the impetuosity of one with the cautiousness of the other. While one part of her, a rather loud part, wants nothing more than to pounce on the man in front of her and love him body and soul until he's whole once more, the other part – the rational part – whispers rather unfairly that doing anything of the sort feels almost like cheating on Charming.

She sits up and traces his spine, gliding her fingertips over the muscles she holds tight to when he makes love to her. She wants to call him 'Charming' – she needs to hear him answer to it – but she can't and he won't, so she doesn't even try.

"David," she murmurs against his skin, pressing her lips to the tiny mole over his shoulder blade.

"I know," he responds, despondent.

It's time. They have to get up. They have to say goodbye.

He rubs his eyes and lowers his head once more, exhaling loudly and bracing himself for the day. She feels him tense beneath her touch and she wants nothing more than to save him from this. To save both of them, but she can't.

"I'm sorry," he finally says.

"What for?"

"You barely know me and you're…" he gestures at the air around him, "wrapped up in all of this."

Oh. If only he knew just how wrapped up she is.

"I know you," she quietly replies. "I probably know you better than anyone else."

He turns in her arms and his eyes search her face, perhaps for any insincerity.

"I know you prefer the right side of the bed, and you can't sleep until you know that those you care for are safely tucked away." His eyes widen, but she continues before her courage deserts her. "I know breakfast is your favorite meal of the day and that, despite working in an animal shelter, you're not particularly fond of cats. You like broccoli, but hate green beans. You're a sucker for dessert, and even more so for the women in your life." She places a kiss to the corner of his jaw, dropped in astonishment. "I know you've wanted that little girl for as long as you can remember. And I know, someday, you're going to make a fantastic husband to a wife who loves you, just as you are."

He's silent for a moment, staring at her as if she's the final step in some sort of magic trick, but she remains smiling at him sadly, her heart breaking that her Charming should know her so little. She's not used to being in a relationship so unevenly divided.

"How…?" The rest of the question gets lost in the air that seems to crackle between them.

"In time," she murmurs, as she slides out from behind him and offers her hand. "Come. She's waiting."

xxxxxx

Graham leans against the doorframe, hating himself just a bit more with every piece of clothing Julia Gordon places in Emma's suitcase.

She has made him a party to his best friend's heartbreak and, not for the first time, he curses the duties his badge requires of him.

Deciding that Miss Gordon can handle things herself, he turns and crosses the hall, pausing in the doorway to David's room and inhaling sharply at the sight before him.

Emma is curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, facing away from the door with her blanket in one hand and a wooden sword in the other. But the part that makes Graham ache more than he already does is that she's wearing a red leather jacket that's yet too big for her oh so tiny body.

"Hey, darlin'."

"Mr. Graham?" she sniffs, turning over and wiping a hand across her eyes.

"True enough." He sits on the side of the bed and she immediately crawls into his lap. She's never been particularly affectionate with anyone other than David, and perhaps more recently, Mary Margaret. But she raised her arms to be lifted the moment he came to get her at Granny's, and right now, his is the only friendly face she has, so he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in tight. "None of that," he says, wiping his thumb across her cheek.

"Will you take me away?" she whispers and the words are a dagger to his heart.

"And where shall we go?" He doesn't want to encourage her, but the fantasy is so much easier than real life at the moment.

"Far away," she says, closing her eyes. "Wherever David is."

"Silly girl, do you think he'd leave and go far away without taking you with him?"

She shakes her head and a tear splashes on her cheek. "But what happens when they take _me_ far away?"

The words come before he even has to think. The truth is like that, he supposes. "Then he'll come get you. Like a princess in a tower."

"Fighting off dragons?" She raises her wooden sword and he tugs sadly on the edge of her jacket.

"And ogres and giants and witches and trolls."

Emma smiles, a moment of joy and light in a day of darkness. But like all things, it doesn't last. Her grins fades and her eyes dim, but she continues to study the wooden sword, quite content to stay in Graham's lap for the time being.

And then she asks the one question that knocks the breath from his lungs.

"Will you take care of him? While I'm gone?"

He's supposed to be the strong one. He's the adult – the _sheriff_ – for god's sake, but he can't even open his mouth, lest what comes out is the anguished noise he's struggling to keep inside. All he can offer is a nod and hope it's enough.

Of course he'll take care of David. David's been taking care of him for long enough.

"Sheriff?"" Miss Gordon pokes her head around the door and Graham is slightly satisfied by the pain that briefly flashes across her face at having to interrupt.

"Is it time?"

"Not yet," she replies, her gaze darting to the child before quickly skirting away. "He's here."

Graham's stomach drops.

David. David is here.

xxxxxx

He already has a tight, almost pained smile on his face, but he has to start faking it now, because if he begins any later, it won't be fortified enough for the moment she appears before him.

He clears his throat and feels Mary Margaret's hand slide into his own. He's never noticed the way people hold hands before. Not really. But with her, he takes note of the way she first blindly reaches for him and then slides her palm down his wrist until their fingers intertwine, like teeth in a zipper. He's never held hands with someone with the intent to never let go.

He's also never felt more like a stranger in the foyer of his own home.

There's a creak of a door hinge and Miss Gordon is the first to appear on the top landing. She looks as though she's aged ten years since he first clapped eyes on her, as he's sure, they all have.

Graham appears next, but his eyes don't stay on the sheriff for long. For in his friend's arms is the girl for whom he'd lay down his life.

"Emma?"

"David?" her blond head pops up from Graham's shoulder and she's immediately wiggling to get out of his arms. He sets her on the floor and she makes it four steps down before launching herself off the staircase, knowing that he'll catch her.

He scoops her up and holds her so tight to his chest, breath hitching as he buries his face in her hair.

"Hey, squirt."

"Hi," she murmurs, holding onto his collar as she wraps her little legs around his waist.

They stay like that for a while, standing in the foyer as he gently rocks her back and forth. No one else speaks; they fade into the walls, allowing the broken man and girl in the middle to have their moment.

"Can you keep me?" she finally whispers and he laughs out a sob.

"I wish I could."

He can feel Mary Margaret's hand on his back. One of them is shaking, or perhaps they both are. Either way, he takes comfort in her touch.

"But," he places her on the ground and kneels down in front of her. "I will come for you. I'll find you. Okay?"

"Promise?"

"I promise." He cups her face in his hands and places a kiss on her forehead. "I will always find you."

Mary Margaret gasps beside him, and he tries to remember to ask her later what it was about those words that made her so upset.

xxxxxx

It's all Regina can do not to lean back and throw her feet up on the desk in contented victory.

She has him. She knows he does. His only weakness other than his son, is this. His Beauty.

She almost rolls her eyes at how saccharine it sounds, but she stays focused on the moment, because Rumpelstiltskin is pacing her office like a prize fighter and she needs to be on her guard.

"What have done to her?"

"For the last time, I haven't _done_ anything."

Gold stops and leans on the desk. "What. Do you want. From me."

She leans forward and clasps her perfectly manicured fingers together. "A little 'top up,' shall we say." Off his look, she elaborates. "My curse – the curse _you_ gave me, I might add – is weakening. With the brat gone, I'll be free and clear to do a little fortifying."

"Uh, I think you forgot one tiny detail, dearie," he responds with a lilt, and she truly sees the imp's manic glee shining through for a moment. "Magic doesn't exist here."

"Doesn't it?" She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "If she's who you say she is… she _is_ magic."

Gold stands once more, granting her an appraising look. "Finally, after all that teaching and studying, something finally sunk in."

"Oh don't think you get to take credit for this. The product of True Love is magic, it's common knowledge."

"It's not actually. So few have it. True Love, that is." He leans forward once more, and she gets a thrill, thoroughly enjoying the wicked game they're playing. "Why should I help you?" he asks, all playfulness gone.

"It would be in her best interest if you do." She waits, letting her words sink in and when he visibly pales, she knows they have.

"If you touch her – " he growls.

"You'll what? Fight for her honor and show her what a _brave_ man you are?" It's a low blow, but she's never been one to pull her punches.

His features go tight and he walks to the window, silent save for his harsh inhalations and exhalations as he attempts to calm down.

She has to bite back a chuckle. She does love riling him up.

Finally, he spins and her stomach tightens at finding that manic glee back in his eye. "Fine. A 'top up' you ask for and a 'top up' you shall have."

"Changed your mind so quickly?" she asks, looking for the signature catch.

"It's not time yet," he whispers, giving her a smile that unsettles her more than anything else he's ever done. "I'll reset your curse. Myself included."

"And why would you do that?"

"Am I to be given any other choice? Living 22 more years in ignorance is better than spending those 22 knowing Belle is at your mercy."

"Ah, the imp does have a heart." She raises an eyebrow.

"And it's subject to bruising. But you would know all about that, wouldn't you, dearie."

Her smirk disappears and she stands abruptly, but he cuts her off before she can open her mouth.

"The Huntsman keeps his deputy. Let Mr. Nolan have his single life."

"You're bargaining?" Her tone is surprised.

"I assure you, the loneliness will take a far greater toll than a loveless marriage. Especially now that the Charming you buried and the David Nolan you're about to, have tasted such happiness before."

Regina considers for a moment. "Snow doesn't get to keep the dog."

Gold rolls his eyes. "Ruthless to the very core, aren't you. Even letting a poor animal suffer."

They're playing a carefully crafted game of chess and he's trying to get her off course.

"Why not ask for Belle?"

He scoffs. "Would you actually part with her? You'll hold her over my head until you get exactly what you want. So I'll help you. I'll forget for the time being, but not forever." His smile fades and he steps closer to her, invading her personal space. "The curse will break. One day, it will. And on that day, I'll come for her. And god help you if you stand in my way."

She narrows her eyes, knowing he means every word, and yet careful not to play her hand as she nods towards the door.

"Better hurry," she murmurs. "You'll want to catch True Love's progeny before she leaves."

xxxxxx

It's all Snow can do to not break down sobbing right then and there.

David tries to get Emma to put on the coat that actually fits her, but she refuses to part with the red leather jacket that's currently engulfing her tiny body. It's a testament to how precious it is to her, but for David, it's making it harder to do what he has to do and he's already attempting the impossible.

"Baby, please."

"No! I want to wear it."

"Okay," he whispers and she knows his voice can't speak any louder than that at the moment.

She places a hand on his back as he kneels in front of Emma, briefly meeting Graham's heartbroken gaze as he holds her little suitcase in his hand.

"You got your blanket?" David asks and Emma nods. "How about your swords?"

She holds them up, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground along with the rest of the items she refuses to relinquish.

"What if you kept one?" she quietly asks, hopeful gaze darting between Snow and David. "It's silly for me to have two. You haven't taught me how to fight yet, so I can't play with anyone else until I play with you."

The logic is sound, yet Snow is sure Emma's just managed to shatter everyone in the room. David hangs his head and Snow grips the back of his neck, no longer able to fight the tears that stream down her face.

"Okay," David finally manages. "I'll keep one. But just for you." He takes the wooden sword she offers and does a little bow.

Snow laughs through her tears and watches as her husband zips their daughter into her coat and places a lingering kiss on her forehead.

"You'll be good for Miss Gordon, right?"

Emma nods and turns to glance at the woman where she stands next to Graham. It seems to jolt something in her, a reminder that David is not the only one she's leaving and she runs over to the sheriff and throws her arms around his leg.

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, darlin'. But it's not goodbye."

"No. It's goodnight," she replies and he chuckles, leaning down to place a kiss on her head.

"Goodnight, then."

She moves to Snow next and Snow truly isn't sure if she's capable of handling this.

"Bye, Miss Blanchard."

Snow kneels down and cups Emma's face in her hands, recognizing her chin and her nose and Charming's eyes and his hair. She has so little time to categorize the features they've passed on. This is her daughter, she needs more. She needs forever.

"Bye, sweetheart." She scoops her into her arms, trying not to think about the last time she held her this tightly. But with that blond hair in her face and that blanket squeezed between them, _that day_ is all Snow can see.

" _You have to take her. You have to take the baby to the wardrobe."_

"I'll see you soon." She swallows hard and taps her nose. "Keep reading."

"But I don't know how."

Snow brushes her cheek against Emma's, whispering a promise she knows she might not be able to keep. "I'll teach you."

Emma pulls away and smiles, and it's a sight Snow catalogues for future use, burning it into her brain to pull out again on dark nights. She hastily wipes at her face and attempts to pull it together for the hardest goodbye of all, as Emma makes her way back over to David, full circle, and crashes into his chest.

"I love you," he whispers.

"Love you, too," she replies.

Internally Snow is screaming at Emma to kiss him, but she can't push it. She's _so close_ though. She just has to turn her head and press those tiny lips to his scruffy cheek, and she'll have her father back. Her real one.

But Snow doesn't and Emma pulls away, unable to say anything else, not even a farewell.

After all, there's no good in goodbye.

xxxxxx

Gold is waiting near the parked car in front of the Nolans' house. It belongs to the social worker, and barring any miracles, she won't be leaving without Charming's girl in tow.

So he bides his time, ignoring the fact that he's not actually looking forward to what he's been tasked to do. Normally causing mischief and mayhem is his modus operandi, but not today. Not with them. He never thought he'd feel anything more than childish disdain and passing annoyance for Prince Charming, but he's been in these shoes and he does not envy the man one bit.

Eventually the door opens and the brunette with the glasses walks out, followed by the little girl bearing her father's features. He briefly wonders why Charming and Snow don't follow, before realizing that they probably can't. They can't actually witness her drive away.

The social worker and the girl make it halfway down the path before either notices him, and when they do, Emma hides behind the woman's legs.

"It's all right," he beckons her to him and she comes haltingly. The woman watches him like a hawk as she holds what little belongings Emma has.

"You don't want to leave, do you?"

She shakes her head.

"Don't worry, you'll be back."

"I will?"

"Indeed. You're very important," he whispers conspiratorially and her eyes gain the sparkle they lost. "So chin up, dearie, yes?" he asks, tapping her on the chin and feeling the burst of tingling warmth that shoots up his arm.

She nods as he flexes his fingers, feeling the raw magic glide beneath his skin.

Yes, that'll do nicely.

xxxxxx

"Is it done?" Regina asks as she saunters up to where Gold watches the car drive off with the savior in tow.

"It's not much," he responds, glancing at his hand, "but it's enough."

"Good."

" _You._ " The voice is raw, vibrating with pure anger, and they turn to find Charming standing in the doorway. "You did this," he seethes, staring at the mayor. "You called them."

"David," Mary Margaret starts, but he's already off the porch in one leap and stalking down the path.

"What lies did you tell them? Hm? What did you say I did to have them take her away?"

It's as shattered as she's ever seen him and she's certainly broken him before. She spares a glance for Mary Margaret and Graham as they hurry down the path and flank David on either side.

"Oh don't worry, dear," she begins, the words as familiar as if she spoke them only yesterday, "in a few moments, you won't remember you knew her. Let alone loved her."

"You bitch," Mary Margaret whispers and, for a moment, Regina is completely thrown. But then, understanding passes across her face and her stunned expression slides into a satisfied smile. Well. Things just got more interesting.

"Snow, I presume."

Snow proves her assumptions correct when she pales, but David's anguish keeps him from cluing into the fact that something about the conversation is a little _off._

"What did I ever do to you?!" he demands.

"You made her happy!" Regina spits out and Snow sways. Indirectly hurting her is just as satisfying as directly hurting him. An added benefit.

Luckily for both of them, this pain is only temporary.

Snow's eyes dart between Gold and Regina and she closes them. "Of course," she whispers. "You're going to fix this, aren't you."

Regina doesn't deign to answer; she merely raises an eyebrow.

Snow nods and laces her fingers through David's. Only then does he seem to snap out of whatever murder plots he'd been mulling over in his head as he gazed at the mayor; and Regina watches as Snow steps forward, tugging David down closer.

"Find me," she whispers, her lips grazing his cheek and leaving a lasting burn.

Part of Regina, the part that she buried long, long ago aches at the intimate sight.

But she's past that. She's _stronger_ than that. And with a nod to Gold, she takes his hand and blows her breath across it. Purple mist floats on the breeze and hits the three in front of her, leaving them with nothing but glazed eyes and vacant expressions.

"They'll wake in a few minutes, with the memory of a lovely conversation about the change in the weather," Regina simply says, taking Gold's arm and leading him towards the diner. "Now for the rest."

She brushes off her hands as if she'd actually gotten them dirty.

In a way, she supposes, she had.

xxxxxx

Julia Gordon expects David Nolan to contest the decision, or even to call, but nothing comes. She wants to ask why he gave up so easily on the little girl he could barely say goodbye to, but when she searches for his phone number, his file is nowhere to be found.

And when she decides to drive through the dreary town that gave Emma her brightest days, she finds that she no longer knows the way.

xxxxxx

Time passes and yet it doesn't.

Gold walks down the street with a limp and a lonely gaze.

Kathryn signs the divorce papers when they come, claiming 'irreconcilable differences.'

Graham brings donuts to the station and finds himself in the mayor's bed at least three times a week.

Mary Margaret cradles birds in her palms and teaches the importance of finding one's way home.

David wraps the holster around his back with practiced ease as his wedding ring gathers dust in his bedside drawer.

Regina approves paperwork for projects that never get completed, and presides over her town with a sense of relieved satisfaction that wasn't there before.

And twelve years later, eighteen-year-old Emma Swan wraps a worn leather jacket around her thin frame and jams the keys into the beat up car's ignition.

"It's you and me, kid," she whispers to her non-existent baby bump, before bringing the yellow bug to life. She exhales deeply, briefly wondering what the hell she's actually doing, before closing her eyes and pointing blindly to a map.

Her finger lands and her eyes open, wincing as she glances down to see her fate.

Huh.

Maine.

Maine sounds nice.


	12. Beginnings

Portland was nice, but she wants to see what Bar Harbor is all about. Maybe even hop a boat to Nova Scotia, if she actually had a passport.

But after having to stop to fend off nausea for the third time in the last hour, she's beginning to think that driving is overrated. Much like eating.

"Come on, kid. Cut me some slack," she murmurs, rubbing her hand across the barely visible bump beneath her sweater as she passes a road sign. Ten more miles until the next town.

It's late. Her car clock informs her it's 9:02pm, but it hasn't been reliable in all the time she's had it and she doesn't wear a watch. Not since… well. She just doesn't. So for all she knows, it could two in the morning but her body constantly feels tired, so even her internal clock is on the fritz.

The air is damp, causing the roads to shine in the moonlight and mist to fog up her windshield, but she can still make out the sign welcoming her to Storybrooke.

Storybrooke. Seriously?

Beggars can't be choosers, though, and she turns the car onto Main St. and briefly wonders if she's wandered into some sort of ghost town. No one is out, the stores are all shuttered – perhaps it's later than she initially thought.

She doesn't see much in the way of lodging and she briefly contemplates moving on to the next town, but she's _so_ tired and her car is stuttering and really, now is not the best time for engine failure.

"Come on, come on, don't do this," she pleads to the dashboard, which merely mocks her in return with its falling speedometer. "No, no, no, I'm sorry I cursed you out earlier! Please?"

But it putters to a stop and she has just enough momentum to steer it flush against the curb.

"Fantastic," she mutters, leaning forward and resting her forehead on the wheel. "Just wonderful."

Sighing, she glances at her pitiful excuse for a bag in the backseat. It's been used as a pillow more times than she cares to admit, but it's a few rungs up from the park bench she once used after having a little too much fun at a friend's party. Acquaintance, more like.

Resigned to her fate, she unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out, shivering in the cool Maine air as she opens the back door and shoves her belongings over. Frankly, she's so tired that her bug's leather seat will feel like a bed at the Four Seasons. Grabbing a sweater from her bag, she pulls it over her head and drapes another over her legs, cursing herself for not investing in a blanket yet. You'd think she would have learned her lesson by now.

It doesn't take her long to drift off. The noise of the breeze banging the sailboat halyards against theirs masts is its own kind of lullaby, but though sleep comes easy, it doesn't last for long.

_Tap, tap, tap._

She groans and rolls over, nearly rolling into the leg space between her back and front seat.

_Tap, tap, tap._

"Ugh, what?" she groans, peeking an eye open to find a man standing outside her car, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Good evening to you too," comes his muffled voice through the glass and he gestures with a finger for her to roll the window down.

She stares at him for a moment, having the craziest feeling that she's seen him before. It's this, more than any fear that makes her hesitate before complying. Then she sees the badge on his chest catch the moonlight and she's quick roll the window down.

"Hi," he greets.

"Hi," she replies.

He's smiling in a way that seems to say he's amused and yet concerned. It's a nice change of pace from the cops she used to run into who were all gruff replies and grumpy faces.

"What's your name?"

"Emma. Emma Swan."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Swan," he says, sticking his hand through the window. "I'm David, the deputy here."

"Oh." She's not sure what else to say, so she waits for him to take her cue.

"New to town?"

She gestures to the bags that litter her backseat. "How could you tell?"

"We don't get a lot of visitors. Plus, you know, you're sleeping in your car." He grins at her and she's not sure why, but she's incredibly comforted by the expression.

"It broke down."

"Huh." He flashes a light towards her dashboard. "Old model. I'll have Michael come pick it up in the morning." Off her look, he says, "He's the mechanic. Owns Tillman's."

She barely has the cash for food and gas let alone an overhaul, which her beat up car is sure to need. But before she can voice these concerns, David is speaking again.

"Look, I was on my way home. The only B&B in town is closed and I have a spare bedroom. Why don't you crash with me tonight?"

"Excuse me?" She's not sure which to be more shocked at, the offer itself or the sincerity behind it.

"I'm a cop," he defends, pointing to the badge on his jacket. "Come on, you're what – 17? 18?"

She glares, knowing he hit the nail right on the head and he chuckles.

"Which is it?"

"18," she mutters.

"Right. Come on." He steps back and it takes her a moment to realize he expects her to open the door. He's not presumptuous enough to do it for her. "I have central heating," he coaxes and the thought of burying herself under a heap of blankets on a soft bed finally breaks her.

"Okay." She opens the door and steps out on shaky legs. "Okay."

"Okay," he parrots, before gesturing to the backseat. "Do you want to bring it all? You're welcome to."

"No, no, it's okay. I just need…" she grabs her duffle bag, quickly unzipping it to make sure the blanket is inside, before pulling it from the car. "Just this."

He's quick to take it for her, gesturing with his free hand to the cruiser that idles just behind her car. She slides into the passenger seat, an utterly novel thing. It's weird to ride in a police cruiser and not be manhandled into the back.

"So, Miss Swan, where are you coming from?"

"Phoenix."

He stares at her for a moment longer than he probably should and the car swerves a bit. "Arizona? Did you drive all the way here?"

"Almost."

He laughs, impressed, and she finds it so odd to feel so comfortable with a complete stranger. A stranger whose laugh she swears she's heard before.

"This is it," he announces as he pulls up in front of a two-story home.

"You live here by yourself?" she asks, because it's the most space she's ever seen one person live in before, but that's not why she keeps staring. It's like she's seen it in a dream, the details of which are just out of her reach.

"My ex-wife used to live here with me," he says, breaking her concentration.

"Oh." She curses her ability to stick her foot in her mouth. "Sorry."

"Don't be. We're friendly." He smiles as he gets out and pulls her bag from the back.

"Do you often take in strays?" she asks wryly as he leads her onto the porch, unlocking the front door.

"Don't get many strays in this town." He flicks on a light and something aches within her at how warm it all feels. The pale yellow walls and the couch's inviting cushions.

"Up here. You'll probably want to get straight to bed, seeing as I so rudely interrupted your sleep."

"What time is it anyway?" she asks with a yawn.

"You don't want to know," he replies. 

She follows him up the stairs and pauses in the doorway of the room he leads her to, inhaling sharply.

_Overwhelmed by the shadows in the corners of the room she hasn't memorized yet._

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I just…" she trails off and runs a finger down the pale green wall, "I'm having a bit of déjà vu. Stupid, really…"

"It's not stupid," he says, looking at her seriously. "Not stupid at all."

She smiles softly at his words and gestures awkwardly to the bed. "I should…"

"Yes, of course. Sorry it's small. I'm not sure what we were thinking, getting a twin bed for a guest room."

She scoffs. "You're talking to a girl you just pulled from the back seat of her car. Trust me, the twin bed is an upgrade."

"Right. Well," he points behind him, "towels are in the hall closet, bathroom's to the right, and… if you need anything, I'm just across the hall."

With a smile and a nod, he heads out the door, but not before she blurts out a "Thank you."

He turns with a soft smile. "My pleasure."

She brushes her teeth and sinks into the bed, allowing the mattress and blue blankets to mold perfectly to her form.

Odd.

It's as if it was made for her.

xxxxxx

Oh my god, she's never hugged a toilet so hard in her life.

It's 6am, or so the bedside clock told her, and the child in her stomach is apparently going through his teenage rebellious phase sixteen years too early. All she can think about is how it's remotely possible for so much stuff to come out of such a relatively small person.

"You're pregnant," comes a murmur from the doorway and she raises her head just high enough to see David standing there in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

"What gave me away?" she groans and a pained look crosses his face as another wave of nausea sends her back to the porcelain. Her stomach muscles are squeezing her dry and she doesn't even recall eating this much yesterday, but before she can think about the inner workings of her body any further, she hears the sink turn on before her hair is being lifted off the back of her neck and a cool, wet washcloth is placed on her skin.

She moans and rests her forehead on her arm, utterly spent.

"You're great, but please go away."

"What? Why?" His voice is scratchy from sleep, yet he doesn't let go of her hair.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

"Trust me, I've seen worse."

She peeks an eye open and raises an eyebrow. "Doubtful."

"You try pulling Leroy from The Rabbit Hole after last call."

"I have no idea what any of those words mean," she groans and he chuckles.

"Don't worry about it."

Silence descends, but she's terrified to move, lest it upset whatever inner balance she's managed to attain. He stays because she stays, and despite what she says, she's grateful.

"How far along are you?"

"Fifteen weeks." It seems so little in the long run, knowing she has to get to forty, but that's three and a half months that she hasn't been alone, and it's her longest stretch so far.

"Do you know what it is?" There's something in his voice, something broken yet carefully hidden that brings her gaze to his once more.

"No. Not yet. I don't…" she inhales deeply. "I don't know if I want to find out."

"No?" He lets go of her hair and leans against the tub, genuinely curious. And she finds that she wants to tell him. She wants to open up to him, because carrying this burden alone is too much to bear, especially so early in the morning.

"I might not keep it."

"Oh." It's quiet, but free of judgment. She's grateful for that too.

"Sorry I woke you."

"Don't worry about it. You okay?"

She nods, holding the washcloth on the back of her neck.

"I am now, thanks," she says, as he stands and bids her goodnight, even though light is already peeking over the trees.

She had a social worker once who always told her fate would intervene. It seemed like a bunch of bullshit at the time, but sitting on the cold tiled floor, she wonders.

The washcloth is now lukewarm and her stomach is still roiling, but the most pressing matter is how on earth she ended up here, in the home of the deputy of Storybrooke's finest.

And why, _why_ does she feel like she's been here before?

xxxxxx

Bacon.

She smells bacon. And it might very well be the most beautiful scent she's ever experienced. It brings her out of bed and down the stairs, almost as if in a trance – like those cartoons she used to watch as a kid.

"Morning, sunshine."

She snaps out of it to find David flipping pancakes on the griddle and a plate of freshly made bacon on the table.

"You did all this?"

He shrugs. "I like breakfast."

She's doing everything but drooling as she stares at the spread, and the drooling is a very near thing.

"When was the last time you had a proper meal?" he asks.

The question catches her off guard and she suspects she looks rather like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I don't – I…" her stuttering is enough of an answer and he gestures to the seat with a spatula.

"Sit."

She complies as she rubs her stomach, her nausea having been replaced with ravenous hunger. She steals a piece of bacon and pops it into her mouth. It's all she can do not to moan.

"What time is it?"

"Almost one."

"In the _afternoon_?"

He shrugs. "You needed the sleep."

"But… don't you have, like, adult things to do?"

He laughs as he flips the pancakes onto a plate. "I had the nightshift last night. I'll go in at 3pm. Graham will take over later."

"Graham?"

"The sheriff."

"Ah, your boss."

"More like coconspirator," David mutters, and off Emma's look, he says, "We tend to get into trouble."

"How? You're the police."

"Police gotta answer to someone."

It's a sentence that leaves her a little unsettled, as if knowing that the man in front of her gets reprimanded upsets her somehow.

"It's the way of the world," he continues, placing the heaping plate of pancakes in front of her with a little flourish.

"Banana. I hope that's okay." He suddenly looks worried. "I probably should have asked first. I'm sorry, I can make up another – "

She grabs his arm if only to stop him talking. "Banana's fine! It's my favorite, actually."

"Really," he says, eyeing her curiously. "Mine too."

Conversation is a little awkward; the weather comes up a few times. But damn if they aren't the best banana pancakes she's ever had.

xxxxxx

Michael Tillman tells them it'll be at least six days for the car.

David turns to her and raises his eyebrows, as if to say, _"I'm game if you are."_

She shrugs, hoping he interprets the _"It's up to you"_ in the gesture.

And he seems to, because when he turns back to Michael Tillman, he says they'll be back in a week.

She's not quite sure what she just agreed to, but the baby within her seemed to like David's pancakes and frankly, that's good enough for her.


	13. Requests

"You mean there's a girl," Graham says as he spoons another bite of rocky road into his mouth, "staying at your place… just because she wanted to?" he finishes, mouth full.

David snorts as he peels the label off the beer bottle with his thumb. "Sort of."

"You didn't have to bribe her or anything."

"No!"

Graham cocks his head, before a wry, dangerous smile slides across his face. "Well it's about bloody time."

"Ugh," David replies with a shiver, picking up the nearest object and tossing it at Graham. "She's _eighteen_! And pregnant, by the way!"

"Oi!" Graham yells as he ducks the flying roll of tape. "It was a joke. At ease, soldier."

David narrows his eyes as he takes another swig of his beer. Someone is technically supposed to be on duty, and since Graham is the only one not imbibing, it looks like he's drawn the short straw. It also looks like he has something semi-serious to say, if the way he fidgets in his seat and won't meet David's gaze is any indication.

"It's just that…" the sheriff starts.

"Yes?"

"You haven't had one."

"What?"

"A girl."

"Christ, Graham."

"What! I mean it."

"And you have?" It's a low blow but they both know the mayor is not exactly a serious or respectful relationship. She's a bone of contention between the men and David only brings it up because he cares.

It's to Graham's credit that he doesn't argue; merely holds the pint of ice cream out and waves it around. "Want some?"

David lifts his beer bottle. "If forced to choose between the ice cream and the booze, I'm going with the latter."

"Spoilsport."

"Hello?" comes a voice from the hall and both David and Graham immediately sit up, knocking some paperwork off in the process. "David?"

_Emma._

"In here!" he yells, swigging the rest of his beer and chucking the bottle in the bin.

"Dude," Graham whispers as she enters.

"Eighteen," David reminds, kicking Graham under the table.

"Ow, hi," the sheriff groans, standing with a limp and reaching out a hand. "Graham. Sheriff."

"Yeah," she chuckles, "the badge kind of gave it away. Emma." She takes his hand and looks a little overwhelmed as she glances around the station. "So this is where you work?"

"Glad you found it." David stands, but doesn't quite know what to do next, so he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, the, uh – the _interestingly_ dressed waitress at the diner gave me directions."

"That would be Ruby," David laughs as he gestures for her to take his seat.

"Oh, no, no, I just… I didn't know when you'd be home and I thought the least I could do would be to cook dinner. If that's okay."

And she looks so hesitant, as if already awaiting rejection. Her shoulders are up near her ears, bracing for the inevitable blow, but David smiles, feeling warmth bloom in his chest at the thought of her wanting to cook for them.

And so lost is he in his thoughts that he almost doesn't hear Graham say, "Any cooking is better than his."

"Hey," David replies, mildly affronted. "You didn't complain last time."

"Well, " Graham scoffs, "macaroni and cheese is hard to botch."

Emma snorts in her effort to hide her chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough. David claps her gently on the back and she offers him an embarrassed smile.

"How are you feeling?"

She rolls her eyes. "Meaning, 'Am I having any more Exorcist episodes?' No."

"Good," he replies, and he's glad for sure, but something about that particular phrasing irks him.

_"Oh no, is Emma sick?"_

_"Or she's turned into the girl from The Exorcist."_

"David?"

"Yeah?" he snaps back to attention to find Emma and Graham looking at him oddly. "Sorry, what?"

Emma looks almost hopeful and terrified as she repeats her question. "I asked if pasta was okay."

"Oh. Pasta's great," he replies, swallowing hard and wondering why on earth this girl affects him so. He just wants to wrap her up and tuck her away. Away from the cruelty of the world and away from a fate that leaves her pregnant and alone at 18.

Graham gives him a ' _what the hell is wrong with you'_ look as David grabs his jacket off the back of the chair.

"Actually, I'm heading out too. Come on, we can go grocery shopping together."

Emma smiles, and David's pretty sure he'd move heaven and hell just to see her smile again. "Okay."

It's been 24 hours.

He's in so much trouble.

xxxxxx

_I like him. He talks funny._

Emma shakes her head as David holds the door open for her and they step out into the cool night air. It's weird, being almost… settled. Maybe not settled, because she has no intention of staying, but perhaps 'stopped' is the better word. She hasn't really stopped anywhere before. Always on the move. And even if it is only a week, it's six days longer than she's had in any other place.

She slides into the passenger side of David's truck and somewhere in the back of her mind, she notices he doesn't put the gear into 'reverse' until her seatbelt is buckled. She's not sure if that's the cop in him or just the David in him.

He's been so kind. So generous. And she automatically feels guilty at accepting handouts – at being a burden. That's something that she just can't do.

"I really can check in at the bed and breakfast," she murmurs, feeling the guilt and shame sit on her chest like a weight.

For his part, David looks at her as though she's just announced she's joining the circus. "Don't be ridiculous. Though I'm sure Granny'll give you a deal, it's still money. You can stay with me for free." She eyes him skeptically and he raises his hands. "No strings attached."

"No it's – it's not that." It's not strings; it has nothing to do with strings. Though she doesn't know him, she has a feeling that most things with David are transparent. "I just don't want to intrude."

He glances sideways at her as he turns into the parking lot. "You're not intruding. Like you said, it's a big house for just one."

"Still…"

"You're not used to this, are you," he says bluntly. It's a statement, not a question.

"To what?" she asks. 

"Somebody giving you something and expecting nothing in return." He's pulling into the parking slip and therefore doesn't see the brief crack in her veneer. The slip of emotion that tightens her throat and sets her eyes stinging.

Her first impulse is to lie. To say something along the lines of 'I don't know what you're talking about' to protect the soft heart she's put defense after defense in front of. But one look at David and she finds the untruth fading from her lips.

"No. I'm not used to it," she whispers. 

"Hm," he says, nodding slightly as he throws the truck into 'park.' "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we."

xxxxxx

He tears around the grocery store like a man on a mission and she's left staring in the middle of pasta aisle, utterly overwhelmed by the options. They make 100% whole grain rotini in individual packets? Seriously?

"Onions, mushrooms, garlic, and basil," David announces as he dumps them into the cart at her side. "As requested." He stares at her staring at the pasta. "You all right?"

"There are _so many_. What happened to just generic penne?"

"Close your eyes and pick one," he responds and she doesn't know if she wants to please him, or if he just brings out the goofy side in her, but she closes her eyes, reaches out, and rather gracelessly knocks a box from the shelf.

"Alphabet," he reads as he picks it up from the ground.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," she mutters, but he merely shrugs, rather delighted by the turn of events and puts it in the cart.

And she kind of loves him for that.

"Onwards!" he dramatically intones, unsheathing an imaginary sword and pointing it in the direction of the cereal aisle.

And when he drops a box of Lucky Charms in the basket, because he remembered her mentioning that it was her favorite as a kid, all thoughts of heading to Granny's leave her mind.

xxxxxx

He's pretty sure they've made enough pasta to feed a minor army.

"I think I was supposed to halve the recipe," she says behind him at the table. "It's makes four servings. We were only two."

"Technically three," he responds offhandedly, elbow deep in dishwater.

It's her silence that makes him turn his head, and he finds her staring at him like she's trying to keep up a poker face and failing miserably.

"You all right?"

"Uh huh." Her voice is high and reedy, and she might be many things, but he knows 'all right' is definitely not one of them.

He continues to scrub the pan, trying to figure out the enigma of the girl currently clearing the table. A pregnant loner with deep trust issues and a fondness for Lucky Charms. If it's all he had to go on, it would have been enough.

"The shame of it is, I'm just gonna be puking this all up tomorrow."

He chuckles. "Enjoy it while you can, then."

Her laugh turns into a yawn, but still she picks up the dishtowel and dries the plates he's washed.

"You should rest," he murmurs.

"I can handle a few dishes."

"Of that I have no doubt," he says, even as he removes the towel from her hand. "Go."

"Fine," she groans, sitting at the table and crossing her legs to rub at a swollen ankle. "Where were you born?"

The question throws him for a second, but what throws him even more is that he has to take a moment to think about. "Uh, here. Born and raised."

"Really?" She can't hide her judgment and he laughs, nodding his head.

"I know. Kinda sad, isn't it."

"No, it's… nice." There's a wistfulness to her tone and David shuts the water off, if only to hear her better. "It must be nice to have someplace that's definitively 'home,' you know?"

He turns and dries his hands on the towel, before slinging it over his shoulder. "Yeah," he replies, but the image in his mind and the feeling in his gut tell him he's not talking about Storybrooke.

"What were your parents like?" she asks and he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. What _were_ they like?

"They died when I was young," he replies. "My father first, my mother second."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs and he sees an unguarded look of understanding on her face.

"I don't really remember my father, but my mother was kind. She lit candles when I had nightmares."

And suddenly that look of understanding on her face pales considerably. "My father did that too."

He straightens up. After all, it's not a common enough tradition. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, he wasn't my father. At least I don't think he was." She shakes her head as if trying to wrap her mind around what she's attempting to say. "I never knew my biological parents. But there was a man…" She stares hard at the table, as if willing the words to comes.

"What was he like?" David softly asks, because something inside him is telling him he _needs_ to know the answer.

"I can't remember," she says and her voice breaks. "He took me to the ducks."

Neither says anything for a moment, too lost in memories that seem undeniably coincidental.

"You know, I think I will have that rest," Emma finally says and indeed, she looks as if the past five minutes have taken a toll.

"Yeah, go ahead," he replies after a moment. "Thank you for dinner."

"Thank you for cleaning." She spares him one last searching glance before disappearing into the living room.

He leaves to bring Graham some leftovers at the station, and when he gets back, he finds Emma passed out on the couch. He smiles and takes a moment to stare, praying she doesn't wake up because he has no good excuse for why he can't seem to look away from her peaceful face. So young. So alone. Just a child having a child.

He takes the blanket from the chair and carefully drapes it on her, but as he tucks it up close to her chin, she grabs his wrist. _Hard._

"Whoa, hey. It's me," he whispers.

"What're you doing?"

"I was…" he nods to the blanket still in his hand, "I was afraid you'd get cold."

"Oh." She studies the blanket, but even David knows she was genuinely frightened a moment before. "Thanks."

"Do you want to head upstairs?"

"Right here is fine," she mumbles, already half asleep.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers, placing a candle and matchbook on the coffee table.

Just in case.

xxxxxx

She complains of back pain in the morning (after her 6am date with the toilet) and she knows that when she settles on the couch to read a book that next night, she's just asking for punishment.

But it doesn't happen, because the next thing she knows, she's being lifted up and her subconscious must know who's carrying her because, this time, she makes no move to stop him.

"What're you doin'?"

"You fell asleep," he whispers.

And she can only make a small noise of contentment as she presses her face into his neck and allows him to put her to bed.

xxxxxx

On day four, he regrets leaving Emma alone so many evenings and so he asks Graham to stop by.

"Just keep her company for a bit."

Graham looks somewhat terrified at being left alone with a pregnant eighteen-year-old, and Emma's looking at the sheriff like he's the dartboard and she's got the darts.

This is a potentially disastrous idea.

But he comes home some three hours later to find the credits on an old movie rolling, an empty pizza box open on the coffee table, and an abandoned game of Monopoly on the floor. And on the couch, Emma lies passed out with her feet propped up on a pillow in Graham's lap, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between them.

He doesn't have the heart to wake them up – not yet – but he does take a picture, which he may or may not be planning to post on the station bulletin board.

Eventually, David gently shakes Graham awake and promptly puts a finger to his lips, silently telling him to be quiet. Graham looks befuddled as he slowly takes in his surroundings, but when his eyes land on Emma, an amused smile graces his face as he carefully lifts her feet off his lap.

"She cheats at Monopoly," he whispers and David has to bite back a laugh.

"She beat you, didn't she."

"Maybe."

True to his word, the picture shows up on the board two days later.

Graham doesn't take it down.

xxxxxx

On day seven, Emma leaves Tillman's with semi-bad news. The car will take longer – they need an extra part. But if she's perfectly honest with herself, she's not all that heartbroken about it.

Despite initial impressions, she likes this town. She likes the small streets and the family-owned businesses, the docks and the ducks.

She really likes the ducks.

She pulls her leather jacket around her tighter as she makes her way to the station. She wants to tell David sooner rather than later that he'll be stuck with her company for a few days longer than they anticipated. But when she makes her way into the bullpen, she pulls up short at what she sees.

David's sitting at his desk, cheek propped up in the palm of his hand as he reads a book with a furrowed brow. But not just any book, no. This is a book that's haunted Emma from every shelf she's seen it on.

_What to Expect When You're Expecting._

She opens her mouth to ask if she's really seeing what she's seeing, but her voice gets lodged behind the rather large lump in her throat and the question dies on her lips.

"Don't," Graham whispers behind her and she jumps nearly a foot, but makes no sound. "He'll be so embarrassed to know you caught him."

"How long has he had that?"

Graham shrugs. "A day. He got it in case you hung around longer."

"Must be psychic. Car's not ready," she mutters without any real disappointment. And Graham knows it.

"Glad you're stickin' around, darlin'." He brushes past her but she grabs his arm, because she needs one last reassurance. One last piece of proof that all this could be real.

"He really got that for me?"

Graham snorts. "Well he certainly didn't get it for me."

Huh.

She waits five more minutes, watching him flip the page and worry his lip, before she tells him that the car isn't ready.

And she's pretty sure the smile she receives in return could jump start any engine in a ten mile radius.

xxxxxx

Sixteen days later and the thought of her leaving is nearly unbearable.

The car's ready. They got the call last night and have been oddly quiet ever since. She's early to wake and he's slow to cook, as if each is savoring the time they have left. She doesn't even complain when the nausea hits her and he's waiting at the bathroom door with a wet washcloth and a hair tie.

She allows him to pull her hair back and loop it messily. Despite his best efforts, it's still crooked and she can't help but chuckle as she catches her reflection in the mirror, before she splashes water on her face.

"I'm sure you'll get it eventually. Practice makes perfect."

The words sound familiar as she utters them, and David freezes attempting to remember something from so long ago. Those words, in another voice. In another time. Even Emma seems to be a little shaken by them.

"What if you stayed a little longer?" he blurts out, and the panic he feels immediately throws the cold temperature of the tile beneath him and the constant drip of the faucet into sharp relief. It's all he can hear and feel as he stares at her from the floor, awaiting her response.

"How longer?" she asks, turning and leaning against the sink. There's something in her voice that gives him strength, though. That makes him think perhaps this isn't the most insane idea in the world.

"Forever," he replies.

xxxxxx

 _Well_ , she thinks.

That's quite a request.


	14. Roots

"Forever" is a simple word. Three syllables. Basic pronunciation. Straightforward meaning. For-ever. Not complicated.

Yet Emma feels as though her life just hopped the barrier into the fast lane of "complicated."

The sink is dripping, but she can't be bothered to lift her hand and turn it off. Not when someone just offered her a home on a silver platter, and continues to look at her as if he'd give her the world should she ask for it.

"People will talk," is what finally comes out of her mouth, and she's not sure why _that_ of all things is what she fixates on. She's never been particularly concerned for her reputation before. But maybe that's just it: it's not just _her_ reputation at stake.

David shrugs from his spot on the floor against the bathtub. "They already talk."

"What?"

"Nothing," he murmurs. "It doesn't matter."

"It does!" she cries. "If I'm… making your life difficult, then I shouldn't be here." She doesn't want that. She _never_ wanted that.

He gets up from the floor so quickly, her still-nauseated stomach lurches a bit. "Emma – "

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Move." She reaches out for his shoulders just for something to hold onto. "I still have the spins."

"Sorry," he mutters, allowing her to use him as steadying post. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

He grins as he rubs his hands up and down her arms. "I'm oblivious to many things, but unfortunately for you, not that. How's your head?"

"Foggy," she mumbles. 

He chuckles and wets the washcloth again, before placing it on the back of her neck. She lets her head fall forward, resting her nose against his t-shirt.

"I'm not used to this."

"This generosity?" he supplies.

"How'd you know?" She feels him shrug.

"Lucky guess."

It's a big deal. Bigger than she's able to handle on a Wednesday morning with Tuesday night's dinner just flushed down the toilet. It's putting down roots, and she's never been anywhere long enough to even attempt one root, let alone enough to actually hold her.

But here's this man, who seems to blow all of her preconceived notions about men and their behavior out of the water. He's… kind. Noble, even. Yes, that's the best way to describe him: noble. The kind of man to take in an 18-year-old pregnant kid, no questions asked beyond her favorite cereal, and give her not just a bed but a _home._ Give her a place to return to in the evening, and a person to think about when she's gone.

People will talk, certainly. They'll think the baby is his; that she's nothing but a tramp. But she finds her desire to stay vastly outweighs the whisperings of others.

"Terms," she finally says, drawing back and looking him in the face.

He raises his eyebrows, but remains silent.

"I pay rent. Ah – " she holds up a hand, easily silencing his forming protest. "I pay rent. I split the cost of groceries and the cooking and cleaning."

He doesn't look happy about it, but still, he says not a word.

"And when the baby comes, I find another place."

"No." It's so swift and sharp that she actually jumps a bit. Gone is his easy, exasperated smile, and in its place is a fierce look of stubbornness. One she's seen in her own mirror more often than not. "Absolutely not."

"No?"

"Emma, you don't have to leave. I'm trying to make your life easier here!"

"I didn't ask you to!" She has no idea why she's yelling, and at him of all people. "David, there will be a baby here. Do you know what that means?"

"In fact, I do."

"No you don't! I doubt _What To Expect When You're Expecting_ gives you all the gory details!"

His jaw drops and he looks hilariously embarrassed. "How did you know about that?!"

"Magic!" she yells, storming out of the bathroom and promptly having to brace herself against the wall.

"Em – " he says quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder which she leans into gratefully as her stomach lurches once more.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "Damn hormones."

He chuckles and gently turns her around to face him once more. "No harm done."

And that's it, that's him. She can yell at him; throw his incredibly generous offer back in his face yet he brushes it off with a simple "No harm done." She doesn't deserve this.

"Stop looking so guilty," he lightly complains. "I want this. I'm onboard for the cravings, and the mood swings, and the diapers and the 3am feedings - "

And God, he's thought farther ahead than she has and the realization makes her laugh out a sob.

"So…" he reaches back into the bathroom and pulls a tissue out, handing it to her, "…can we renegotiate the terms in, say, five months or so?"

She sighs heavily, wiping a hand across her face, unable to bite back her smile. "Deal."

"Deal." His smile matches hers as he slings an arm around her shoulders. "Is this okay? Are you gonna puke on me?"

She snorts. "I'll think you're safe for now."

Funny. She feels rather safe now, too.

xxxxxx

"I cannot _believe_ you put me on the early shift," Ruby groans. She'd stamp her foot if she weren't a) at least ten years beyond tantrums, and b) afraid she'd sprain her ankle in her four-inch heels.

"It's not my fault you stayed out all night," Granny tartly retorts as she heads for the door. "When I put over-easy on the menu, I was talking about the eggs."

Ruby rolls her eyes and leans against the post, too cold to stay outside for much longer, but too stubborn to go in and face her grandmother.

"She's a pistol," comes a voice to her left and she turns to the find the new girl leaning against her yellow car.

"You have no idea," Ruby mutters huffing and wishing she hadn't worn these shorts today. Even the girl – Emily? – is bundling her leather jacket tighter around her body. Shorts were definitely a bad idea.

"Are you here for breakfast? As you no doubt heard, the eggs are over-easy today."

The blonde smiles. "Actually, I'm here for a job."

Ruby's eyes go wide, because why on earth would anyone with a car and some semblance of cash stick around this crappy town? "If I were you, I'd get out while I can."

The girl shrugs. "It's not so bad. I've seen worse."

And something in her eyes makes Ruby believe she has. "The morning shift's available."

"Fine with me as long as you don't mind me occasionally running off to puke over the next month or so." She unzips her jacket and shows off a tiny bump.

Huh. Okay.

"Works for me," Ruby replies after a moment, stepping back and gesturing towards the door. "But of course, Granny gets final say."

"I have a feeling she won't like me very much," the girl says, running a hand over her stomach before zipping her jacket back up.

"Oh don't worry. She'll be too busy not liking me to worry about you." Ruby turns and leads the way into the diner, welcoming the heat and cursing the bell over the door.

"Shift started three minutes ago," Granny calls from behind the register.

"I had a feeling you could handle it," she replies, nodding to Dr. Hopper, the diner's only patron. "Found some extra help."

At this, Granny looks up and appraises the girl over her glasses. "What's your name, honey?"

"Uh, Emma. Emma Swan."

Emma. Right. Not Emily.

"You ever worked in a restaurant before?"

"A couple." It's all Emma offers and Ruby finds it interesting that the girl's keeping things so vague. But apparently, that's all the interview Granny needs as she pulls Ruby's coat off and shoves a pad of paper into her hand.

"Congratulations, you're hired."

"She's preggo," Ruby states, tucking a pencil behind her ear as she ties an apron around her waist.

Emma goes rigid as Granny gives her a quick onceover. "You're still hired."

Ruby smiles and raises an eyebrow at the girl who exhales deeply, having survived the brief interrogation relatively unscathed.

"Didn't mean to throw you under the bus, there." And she truly didn't, but Granny was going to find out sooner or later, and to Granny, sooner is always better. 

Emma raises an eyebrow as she accepts the apron that Ruby holds out. "It's not my first interrogation."

Ruby's liking this girl more and more as she preps the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot. "You're staying with David, right?"

"Oh – yeah," Emma says, shifting her weight and looking uncomfortable. "But I mean it's not… it's – it's nothing... I – "

Ruby makes a vague hand gesture, waving her off. "Hell, no judgment here."

"It's purely platonic," Emma says, when she's finally found her words.

"I figured it was. David's a good guy," Ruby offers and something pangs deep in her chest, because a part of her that she'll never own up to having wants someone to swoop in and save her as well.

She wants a David Nolan.

"He is," Emma quietly agrees, tying her hair back and sliding a pencil through the messy bun.

Ruby decides in that moment to like Emma Swan. She's not sure she's really been given any other option – the chick seems cool enough. But Ruby sees something of a kindred spirit in her. A wild and stubborn streak that Storybrooke has lacked in all the time Ruby's been here. She wants to tell her to get out because despite having a David Nolan, she doesn't want the girl to go as crazy as she has. But she can't and so she doesn't.

"Love the jacket," she says instead. "Good color."

xxxxxx

Graham carries the coffee precariously as he nudges the door open with his elbow. It's nearly 5:30pm, and therefore nearly time for him to send David home. The man himself is sitting at his desk, feet propped up with an open file on his lap.

"So your ward just served me coffee and a cupcake."

"My ward?" David laughs. "What is this – an Austen novel?"

"You mocked Austen," Graham says, withdrawing the cupcake he had been about to offer, "you don't get a bite."

"I take it that means she got the job," David says as he closes the file and sits up, stretching his neck.

"She has the apron and everything," Graham replies, mouth full. "Don't worry, I tipped her well."

"Yeah, yeah."

His deputy stands and begins gathering his files into something that actually resembles organization. Unlike Graham's office, which looks like a filing cabinet exploded inside. How they find anything of consequence is a minor miracle.

"I'm heading over there in a minute anyway," David says. "You want anything? Perhaps, I don't know, real food?"

"Cupcakes _are_ real food!" he argues.

"You can't have cupcakes for dinner!"

"Fine, Mom!"

David's jaw drops in mock indignation. "Just because I remind you when you've worn the same shirt for three days straight does not make me your mother."

Graham laughs, but honestly, David's the only family he has and at some point over the course of their relationship, he's fulfilled the duties of mother, father, and brother.

"Are you seeing Madame Mayor tonight?"

"Don't say it with such disdain," he grumbles, dropping into David's vacant seat and stuffing the rest of the cupcake in his mouth.

"Sorry. Reflex," David replies, quickly dodging the pair of handcuffs Graham throws his way.

"Get outta here before I lock you up for loitering."

"It's not loitering if I work here!"

"Then I'll fire you! Go!"

David laughs as he slides his arms into his jacket and tosses the keys to the cruiser at Graham, which he tries to catch but fails miserably, nearly toppling out of the chair at the effort.

"Tomorrow's spaghetti night, if you want to come," David reminds. 

"You're just worried I'm not eating," Graham replies. 

"It's not my fault you only know how to microwave."

"That's it. You're fired."

"So you've said many times," David calls over his shoulder as he saunters out of the station.

Graham watches him go with a thoughtful look on his chocolate-smeared face. He's known David for… well, as long as he can remember. But something has always seemed to be missing in his life, as if David was only half-present. Half-whole. Graham always assumed it was a girl, but maybe it wasn't the right _kind_ of girl.

David's always been good at protecting people. That's just how he is. He's spent years taking care of both the town and its sheriff. And Graham teases because he's honestly not sure if he'll ever be able to repay the debt. Repay the meals and the beers and the countless hours of conversation. The good advice and the bad advice. The games they were too old to play and the fears they were too young to be afraid of.

But then this girl came into his life – both of their lives – and though Graham had nothing to do with her arrival, he's sure as hell going to help ensure her stay.

xxxxxx

"Was that for here or to go?" Emma asks, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, pen poised over the notepad for the response. Her bun won't stay intact and her feet are killing her, but she's got a pocketful of tips and it's more money she's seen in months.

"To go, sweetheart. Thanks," the man replies. 

"Doctor," Granny intones with a threatening undercurrent and the doctor – _Whale,_ Emma recalls – flinches under her stony gaze.

"Uh – just to go," he tries again and the 'sweetheart' is noticeably absent.

Emma grins as Granny winks at her.

The diner's been pretty great, as jobs go. Ruby's sweet if a little colorful, but her arguments with Granny are quite the entertainment. She's slowly getting to know the regulars, who seem utterly perplexed by her arrival. Perhaps David was right – Storybrooke really doesn't get many visitors.

She rubs her lower back as she slides the cup of coffee to the doctor, thanking him as he drops more than enough money on the counter and walks out.

"Careful. He's got a reputation," Ruby whispers as she sidles up next to her.

"Then why are you staring at his ass?" Emma wonders as Whale exits.

"It's a good ass."

Emma laughs, but before she can reply, her name is called from the kitchen and she goes to pick up the burger, before dropping it off in front of Michael Tillman. She's been put in charge of the counter, while Ruby takes the rest of the room. It's not too crowded for the dinner hour, and Emma's grateful, already feeling slightly overwhelmed at all the new information she's trying to digest.

The bell over the door rings again and out of the corner of her eye, Emma can see that the new customer is taking a seat at the end of the bar. She finishes making Ruby a root beer float, before wiping her hands on her apron and grabbing a menu.

"Just one?"

"Excuse me?" The woman asks. "Oh – yes. Of course. Just me."

"Right," Emma replies, sliding the menu in front of her. "Something to drink?"

"Hot chocolate, please."

"Coming right up."

"Oh, with cinnamon. If you wouldn't mind."

And Emma stops.

"Cinnamon?"

"I know, it's weird." The woman shakes her head, as if apologizing for her taste, but Emma takes a step towards her before she even registers the action.

"No, no, no. It's just… I like cinnamon, too. I didn't know it was a thing."

The woman cocks her head and studies her curiously. "I don't think it is."

"Well, great minds think alike then," Emma offers, smiling slightly and turning to ready the order.

"Indeed," she hears behind her and she has no idea why she wants nothing more than to pull up a stool and share a hot chocolate with this woman. This complete stranger.

"Anything to eat?" she asks as she places the mug in front of her. She has dark cropped hair and a kind face, which smiles gratefully as Emma sprinkles the cinnamon on top of the whipped cream.

"No, just the hot chocolate, thanks."

"I'm Emma, by the way," she blurts out, shocked to have willingly offered up personal information.

"That's a beautiful name. I'm Mary Margaret," the woman replies, reaching across the counter and gently shaking her hand. "I teach at the school."

"Oh. I waitress. Obviously," she responds awkwardly, glancing to see how her other two customers are doing before lingering around the young brunette.

"How far along are you?"

She must look as caught off-guard as she feels because Mary Margaret quickly follows it up with, "If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't – I don't mind, but how on earth did you know? I'm barely showing." She even glances at her reflection in the metal refrigerator, just to be sure.

Mary Margaret smiles. "Your hand keeps going to your stomach when you're not paying attention. I just assumed."

"Oh," Emma numbly replies, and sure enough, she glances down to find her palm resting on her lower abdomen.

Mary Margaret shoots her a knowing look as she takes a sip of her hot chocolate. "I don't come in here much, but I don't think I've seen you before."

"I'm new to town," Emma replies, still unaccustomed to being a novelty.

"Well… welcome to Storybrooke."

And Emma can tell the woman truly means it. She almost seems like David, in a way: unassuming, truly generous, sincere. And Emma's pretty sure she could sit and talk with this woman all night, but much too quickly, the mug is empty and the bill is paid.

"Have a good evening, Emma."

"Uh, thanks. You too."

Mary Margaret smiles as she shifts her bag over her shoulder, heading for the door. But before she reaches it, the bell rings and David strides through, bumping right into the small woman.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she immediately says, going red and staring at her shoes.

"It's… it's all right," David replies, looking slightly dumbstruck, as he steps back and allows Mary Margaret to pass.

Emma watches – utterly fascinated – as David stares at the schoolteacher even after the door has shut between them. And so immersed is he in her departure that Emma has to throw a dishtowel at him, just to get his attention.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, shaking his head from whatever the hell that was.

"Really? I said I'd stay not 24 hours ago and already with the nicknames?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer 'squirt?"

"Kiddo' it is," she sighs, resigned to her fate.

"Granny?" he calls across the counter.

"She's all yours, David," Granny replies, sending another wink her way. "Make sure she gets some rest. She worked hard today."

"Will do," he replies as Emma comes around the bar, untying her apron. He slings an arm over her shoulder and gently guides her out of the restaurant. "You smell like hamburger."

"You smell like leather polish," she shoots back and he chuckles as he opens the door into the night sky. She pretends not to notice him look around for someone who's no longer there.

"Home?" he asks.

Emma nods.

"Home is good."

* * *

 


	15. Appointments

The air is foggy and moist, and it feels as though every time he breathes he's inhaling the ocean, but that's not what concerns him right now.

No. Right now, his biggest concern is the woman whose blushing features haunt his every step. Whose light perfume still clings to his jacket and whose name he desperately and inexplicably needs to know. Not even Emma chattering away at his side can derail that. Well, until –

"Wait. Who hit on you?" he pulls up short, causing Emma to slam to a halt beside him.

She fixes him with a look. "Really? That's what you're fixated on?

"Who was it?" he demands again, pulse beginning to thump in his temple. She laughs, which is most unfortunate for someone trying to be taken seriously.

"I can take of myself," she replies, placing a placating hand on his arm.

"Oh I have no doubt. But if you're gonna live with me, you might have to put up with my constant struggle not to punch any man who looks at you sideways."

She stares at him for a moment that has him holding his breath, as if she's sizing him up and expecting him to be found wanting. He starts to pull away, because he has no right to get defensive and he doesn't want to scare her by willingly admitting his protective tendencies, but then something wonderful happens. Her face softens and those walls that she's gotten so good at building fall. She sighs through a smile and hooks her arm around his.

"My gallant Prince Charming," she drawls, but suddenly, he finds it incredibly hard to breathe.

" _Nah. Charming suits you."_

"Snow," he murmurs without knowing why and something sharp settles somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

"Snow?" Emma questions. "It's April."

David glances at her, who's staring at him as if he's grown another head.

"Sorry… " he replies, as the pain fades to a distant ache. "I have no idea why I said that."

xxxxxx

There's something sticky on the counter as well as a questionable-looking piece of food under a plastic dome apparently labeled "carrot cake."

Regina pulls a napkin from the holder and wipes down the counter before sitting in her designated seat.

"Same as yesterday, Mayor?"

Regina rolls her eyes before giving Granny a tight smile. "And the day before," she mutters.

Granny scribbles "apple pancakes" on an order pad and hangs it up in the kitchen window as Ruby pours her a cup of black coffee before sashaying away. Regina's got to admit that their cursed relationship is definitely the most amusing. Almost as amusing as watching Whale trip over himself every time Ruby bends over.

She takes a sip, thoroughly enjoying this new caffeinated addition to her life. If something happens and she's ever forced to return to the Enchanted Forest, she might have to invent electricity, just to power her coffee maker.

"Ruby," Granny calls as she hangs the phone back up on the receiver, "Emma needs the afternoon off for a doctor's appointment. I need you to cover."

"No prob," the girl replies, but Regina can't even focus on the fact that the normally rebellious Ruby does so without complaint. Not when her ears are ringing like the gong at the top of her former tower.

"Emma?" She turns and her coffee mug nearly slips from her grip as a leaden weight settles in her stomach. Her voice is not her own. It is high and reedy, belonging to someone forced to believe that what she thought to be an impossibility was merely an improbability.

"Yeah, Emma," Ruby replies, raising an eyebrow. "The girl staying with David Nolan."

The mug falls to the floor, smashing into a dozen pieces and sending hot liquid everywhere. 

_No…_

xxxxxx

Emma's clammy palm lingers on the phone for a moment, before dropping down by her side. She hasn't done this yet – been to a doctor – and frankly, she's terrified. All of a sudden the child she wasn't sure she wanted to keep has become the thing she worries about most and the realization makes her grip the counter for support.

"Em?"

She glances up to find David halfway through putting his jacket on as he enters the kitchen, looking at her with concern.

"I need you to do something for me," she murmurs, nearly crying when he immediately drops the coat and takes two steps to her side.

"Anything."

"I, uh, I kind of made a doctor's appointment today."

"Oh." He shifts, clearly expecting her to have blurted out something a lot more serious. What he doesn't realize is that, in Emma's mind, this is Def-Con 1.

"I haven't…" she trails off and inhales deeply, attempting to stave off the panic attack that's just moments away from making her get up close and personal with the floor. "I haven't been yet. To the doctor's, that is."

"Oh," he replies, with a little more understanding. "You didn't go after you first found out?"

She shakes her head and moves to pick up his discarded jacket, just to give her hands something to do. "I was pretty positive by the fifth pregnancy test."

He chuckles softly. "Yeah, I guess that would do it. What time?"

She drapes his coat on the back of the chair, running her fingers over the worn leather. It feels like hers, beaten but loved, and a part of her likes that they match. Almost.

"In an hour," she replies, silently begging him to pick up on her signals.

"Do you… want me to come with you?" The question is hesitant, but she practically sags under the relief it provides.

"Please."

He smiles and laughs a little, shooing her toward the door. "Go put something on other than pajamas. Let me call Graham."

"Thank you!" She surprises both of them when she steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck. He stiffens for a moment and the brief but sharp fear of rejection stabs through her, but then he wraps his arms around her and hugs her close.

"Go change."

"Yes, Dad," she grumbles, pulling away and noting the odd look on his face. It's far away and yet remarkably present, as if he's trying to recall two separate times but his mind won't allow him to focus on either.

She punches him gently in the shoulder, which brings him back to himself and he smiles.

But as she climbs the stairs in a house that feels more like home than it should, she wonders why that three little word felt so natural coming out of her mouth as she stood before him. 

xxxxxx

This is potentially the most terrifying place he's ever been in.

There's a child screaming in the corner as his mother attempts to wrestle him into submission, there are posters on the wall depicting the various stages of pregnancy and there are magazines on the table telling readers just how many ways they are failing at being parents.

David swallows hard and glances around with wide eyes. Yep, definitely the most terrifying place he's ever been in. And that includes The Rabbit Hole on 'Casino Night.'

"You're the deputy for Christ's sake. Man up," Emma mutters in his ear before going to check in. He's only slightly offended.

"Easy for you to say," he whispers when she returns with a clipboard. "I'm totally outnumbered here."

Emma glances around to see that, yes, women are the overwhelming majority. "You've got the kid," she says, gesturing to the two-year-old boy crying on the floor.

"I feel so relieved," he deadpans, before grabbing the nearest magazine and lazily flipping through. It doesn't hold his attention, though. No, he's much more interested in what Emma is rapidly scribbling down on the patient intake form.

"You're allergic to strawberries?"

"Invasion of privacy!" she gasps, clapping her hand over the sheet to block her answers.

"I'm allergic to bees, if it makes you feel any better," he shrugs.

She narrows her eyes, but she can't hide her smile for long. David counts it as a minor victory when she gives him a mock glare and returns to her form, but doesn't cover it up.

"You don't have a middle name?"

"I'm sure I did at one point," she mutters, leaving the middle initial box blank. He has enough sense not to ask her to elaborate.

He returns to his magazine, getting entirely wrapped up in _"Twenty-five Ways to Baby-Proof Your House,"_ blowing through the article like he does the sports section of the Sunday paper.

"Okay, there's no way a baby can fit its finger in that. I mean, really. Look at it." He shoves the magazine in her face and she bats it away, returning to her form with a smile. "We need those plastic plug thingies."

It takes him a moment to realize she's stopped writing, and when he does, he wants to smack himself in the head at how careless he was. They won't be getting plastic plug thingies. Why would they if she's not keeping the baby? Why would they if she's keeping the baby, but not staying with him?

_Dammit, David._

"I don't think 'plastic plug thingies' is the technical term," she replies and returns to her form, completely missing the sigh of relief David tries to keep inaudible. But then she says, "I'm sure we can grab some from the store," and proceeds to throw his world upside down.

She's planning. She wouldn't be planning if she wasn't considering. She wouldn't be considering if she wasn't… happy.

The realization makes David forget the other twenty-four ways to baby-proof a house.

"Swan?" a nurse calls and Emma grips his hand with surprising force as the clipboard tumbles from her lap to the floor.

"Oh god, don't let me go in there alone," she whispers, even as she raises her other hand to let the nurse know she's here.

"You'll be fine," he assures, but she grips his hand harder.

"David… I'm serious." She looks so frightened, even more so than when he found her sleeping in her car, and he remembers that though she's legally an adult, she's technically just a child.

"Okay," he finally murmurs. "Go get ready, and when it's time, have them call me in."

"You'll come?"

He pats her hand, finally getting her to release her death-grip on it. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

xxxxxx

The gown is scratchy and the paper on the exam table makes a ridiculous amount of noise any time she tries to move.

"All set?" the nurse asks as she peeks her head in and Emma can only manage a silent nod in reply. "The deputy's getting some practice."

"What?"

"That little boy in the waiting room is currently using him as a human jungle gym."

It's a sight Emma certainly wishes she could see, but at the moment, she's naked save for the flimsy excuse for a gown and the blanket around her waist. She just wants to get this over with so she can go back to her most comfortable state: denial.

There are more posters along the wall depicting happy families and women who most likely _planned_ on getting pregnant. Who _wanted_ this new person in their lives. And Emma is sitting on the table feeling the weight of their judgment as their smiling, happy faces stare down at her.

She feels as though she's on the verge of a full-blown panic attack – her heart is thumping, her breathing is uneven – but then the nurse steps back and David appears in the doorway. Thank  _God_.

"You okay?" he asks when the door shuts behind him and he must notice Emma's rapid breath and pale skin, because he's at her side in a second. "Whoa, kiddo, calm down."

She nods, but her body isn't exactly listening to the instructions her mind is dolling out. She's starting to hyperventilate and her vision is going a bit spotty.

"Hey, hey." He places a hand on her forehead and she closes her eyes. "None of that. Breathe."

She takes a rickety inhale followed by a slow exhale.

"That's it," he murmurs, left hand still on her forehead as she grips his right in her palm. "In and out. It's just an exam. Completely routine. And then we're gonna go home and make meatballs because you know what tonight is."

"Spaghetti night," she whispers, breathing nearly back to normal.

"That's right, spaghetti night."

And she wonders how he learned to do that. How he learned to get his voice to sound like you imagine all bedtime stories to sound: lyrical and low, with just the right lulling quality to ease all manner of fears.

"I'll only calm down if you make garlic bread," she says, releasing her hold on his hand and giving him a wan smile.

"Deal." He shoves his hands on his pockets and awkwardly looks around, seeming just as unnerved by the posters as she is.

She watches him examine a plastic replica of a baby in utero, but just as he goes to touch it, he accidentally knocks the baby out.

"Oh, crap," he mutters, picking it up and attempting to shove it back in, but it doesn't quite want to go.

Emma's red with barely contained laughter at his struggle, but then a knock on the door sounds, her stomach plummets, and David quickly tosses the plastic baby in an open box of medical gloves.

"Come in," Emma murmurs, trying to breathe through the sudden uptick in anxiety. And, as if knows, David steps to her side as the doctor enters.

"Good afternoon," he greets. He's a kindly older gentleman, and immediately Emma is put at ease. His round wire-rimmed glasses magnify his eyes a bit like a bug and he has a gentle smile she imagines a grandfather to have. "How are you, Emma?"

"Good," she replies as the doctor turns to David.

"You're not the baby's father, correct?"

"No!" they simultaneously yell and the doctor raises his eyebrows, letting out a low chuckle.

"Duly noted. I didn't think you were, Deputy, but I thought I'd ask."

"I'm – I'm her… guardian," David finally says and Emma's eyes immediately well with tears.

She'd like to blame her hormones for the lack of composure, but she'd be lying to herself. It's what she's been searching for her entire life – a guardian – and he said it so easily, so casually, as if it was a forgone conclusion.

"I'm Dr. Walter, but you can just call me 'Doc.' Let's get started then." He gestures for her to lift her gown up a bit, which she does, and he squirts the gel on her abdomen. She jumps a bit from the cold.

"You okay?" David asks again and she nods, automatically reaching out for his hand, which he takes without question.

Doc places the sensor on her stomach and she hears her baby before she sees it; the pitter-patter of its rapid heartbeat fills the room a moment before it makes its fuzzy appearance on the sonogram screen.

"Oh my god," both she and David whisper at the same time. She can see its little nose and lips, and even some toes, as it curls into itself, almost huddling for warmth.

"Everything looks good," Doc says. "Strong heartbeat. Healthy weight, so far… Do you want to know what it is?"

It's a loaded question to say the least and she sucks in a breath as she stares at the screen. That's her baby. _Her_ baby. She made that. David doesn't say a word, knowing the decision is utterly and completely hers, but his grip tightens in a silent show of support. She finds herself nodding, trying to comprehend how Doc is going to change her life in a matter of seconds.

"Congratulations, it's a boy."

A sob escapes her lips and she's surprised to find her cheeks already wet; she briefly wonders when she started crying.

"He's beautiful," David gruffly murmurs, squeezing her hand once more and she finally pries her eyes away from the screen to look at him. He's staring at her baby as if looking at something he doesn't know he's lost. Or is supposed to have. It's a longing and wistful look from someone who seems to truly understand the magic of what he's seeing.

And it absolutely levels her.

"Good job, kid," he says when he finally glances down at her, placing a kiss on her forehead.

This baby will be the first thing she does right. And for the first time in her life, Emma takes the compliment.

xxxxxx

The diner is warm compared to the bitter breeze that refuses to relinquish its hold on winter and let spring be ushered in.

Mary Margaret wonders why she thought Maine was a good idea and finds she can't seem to come up with a good excuse. Or even remember the decision at all, really.

She's not much for socializing, but there was something about the diner that stuck with her last night. A connection. Two, actually, if she's honest with herself, even though the second lasted for no longer than a moment.

Going by the badge on his belt, she assumes he's the deputy. He can't be the sheriff, because she's seen Graham around town. But so consumed was she by her odd encounter with the blonde waitress that she didn't even see him until it was too late. Until her senses were overwhelmed by pine and leather and a familiarity just out of her reach.

"Hot chocolate?" a voice says and Mary Margaret jumps, coming back to herself and the waitress – Emma – standing behind the counter with an amused expression on her face.

"Oh! Right, yes. Hot chocolate would be wonderful." She knows she doesn't have to ask for cinnamon. It'll arrive perfectly prepared.

She sits at the counter, even though plenty of tables are open, and pulls out a folder of tests her students handed in today. She has high hopes for their scores and dives in with relish, though she only makes it past the first page before her eyes are wandering to the young woman behind the bar.

There's something different about her. A lightness, almost. She bounces around pouring drinks as if a great burden has been lifted and Mary Margaret finds herself propping her elbow up on the counter and studying her.

Emma adds a perfect dollop of whipped cream and sprinkles the cinnamon, before turning and halting abruptly when she realizes she's the subject of scrutiny.

"What?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head. "Nothing, you just look very happy."

"Oh." Emma shrugs and places the mug in front of her. "I… went to the doctor today."

"Oh? Everything okay?" She surprises even herself at how concerned she is.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine. Great, even." Emma looks as if she's biting back some great secret and, sure enough, it comes tumbling out on a whispered breath. "It's a boy."

"Congratulations!" Mary Margaret replies, just as hushed, leaning forward.

"Yeah, we're really happy."

And the pronoun catches her off-guard. Not that she's one to assign labels, but given Emma's age, Mary Margaret assumed she was doing it alone. The confusion must show on her face, because Emma leans forward, closing the gap between them as if imparting a great secret.

"I meant 'we' as in me and David."

And immediately Mary Margaret's stomach knots.

"David Nolan. You bumped into him last night – "

_No._

"He sort of… took me in. He's been really great."

_Please no._

"I don't – I don't know what I'd do without him."

Wait. The knot in her gut loosens, but her heart still drums an impossible rhythm against her ribcage. "He's not… the father?"

"Oh, God no." Emma straightens and shakes off the idea. "No. He's practically a… not father to me, he's too young. Maybe like a father/brother hybrid."

"He's not the father," she monotonously repeats, because if there's one fact Mary Margaret wants to get right, it's this one.

Emma chuckles. "No. He's not." And then she stares at her as if sussing out some great revelation, eyes narrowed and a knowing smile. But whatever conclusion she comes to, she doesn't share.

Merely raises an eyebrow and clasps her hands together on the counter.

"So, do you have dinner plans?"

xxxxxx

He's just organizing the last of his files as the door to the station bangs shut, signaling Emma's arrival.

Sure enough, the girl herself appears a moment later with a smug smile on her face and immediately his warning bells go off.

"What'd you do?"

"What?" she asks innocently and he narrows his gaze.

"You look like the cat who got the canary."

Her jaw drops in mock indignation. "I'm hardly a cat. If anything, I'm an awkward bird."

He chuckles as he grabs his keys and slings his holster over his shoulder. "How was work?"

"Good." She eyes the postings on the bulletin board and lazily swings her arms back and forth. It's as unguarded as he thinks he's ever seen her, and he can't help but stare for a second at how… _happy_ she looks.

"You put it up."

"What?" he replies, blinking.

She points to the ultrasound picture on the bulletin board, before turning to him with a smile not a little bit awed.

"Oh. I was going to put it on my desk, but Graham wanted it there."

"Huh." She turns back to the picture and smiles softly. Though whether it's at the sonogram or Graham's reaction to it, he's not sure. He's not sure he wants to know, either.

He does a quick onceover of his desk, making sure he's not missing anything important but her voice startles him a second later.

"Oh, I kind of invited someone over to spaghetti night. I hope that's okay."

"Ruby? Because if so, I might need to give Graham an advanced warning. She attempts to jump him at every corner."

"Not Ruby," she coyly replies and that smile is back again.

He waits, expecting her to elaborate but she remains mum, saying only: "I have a feeling you'll be pleased with our guest."

"Cat." He points to her. "Canary." He points to himself.

She chuckles, which does nothing to ease his suspicions. "You owe me garlic bread."

"Yeah, yeah."

Why does he think this isn't going to end well?

xxxxxx

Regina watches at they stroll from the station to his truck, and follows at a distance, headlights off, as they drive home.

She should be surprised to find Graham waiting on the porch steps and greeting them enthusiastically as they pull up, bottle of wine in one hand and jar of pasta sauce in the other. She should be, but she's not.

The betrayal, however, hurts more than she thought it would.

He knew. Graham knew this girl had come into town and yet he kept it from her. It must have been deliberate. Why else would he tell her that he had to volunteer at the animal shelter tonight?

He was a pawn, nothing more. A toy. But as she learned from an early age, Regina doesn't like to share. And pawns who disobey get punished.

xxxxxx

"I come bearing gifts," he announces as David and Emma stroll up the walk.

"Jarred sauce? Seriously?" Emma glances at it with disdain. "We're making homemade stuff."

"And by 'we' she means 'me," David interjects, deftly dodging the punch Emma tries to land on his arm.

"What's this I hear about garlic bre – " but that's all he gets out as a pain like he's never felt before explodes in his chest.

"Graham!" Emma yells.

His mouth is open in a silent scream as he buckles, expecting to hit the ground, but falling into David instead.

He can't see; he can't breathe. All he knows is pain, but just as quickly as it comes, it goes, and he's left panting in the arms of his best friend.

"What the hell was that?" David asks, supporting most of Graham's weight, terror tinting every word.

Graham breathes, thanking any god listening for ushering air into his aching lungs.

"I don't – I don't know."

xxxxxx

Regina shuts the box and puts the car back into gear.

It was just a warning.

Next time, she won't be so lenient.


	16. Dinners

"David, stop looking at me like I'm about to collapse."

"Seeing as you can still barely walk on your own, I'm gonna go with 'Shut the hell up," David replies as he shifts Graham in his arms and nods for Emma to open the door.

She complies without a word, stepping through into the foyer and holding the door open so David can usher Graham through. He seems well enough – shaky, but well – panting slightly and holding his hand over his heart, as if attempting to keep it in his chest.

"We need to get you to the hospital."

"No," the sheriff firmly replies. "I'm fine. Really."

David lets go and Graham falls to the floor. "Yeah, you're fine."

Despite everything, the sheriff smiles. "Touche."

David picks him up again and starts to help him into the living room, but Graham protests.

"No, no. If I'm an invalid, I want to at least be able to shout out directions while you burn the pasta. Put me in the kitchen."

The comment finally draws a smile from Emma as David maneuvers him into a chair at the table and steps back to look at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Graham glances up, still panting slightly and smiling wanly. "Don't look so traumatized. I'm hungry. Get crackin'."

David rolls his eyes, but knows that his gaze won't leave the sheriff for long. What happened was… not normal; to look on the verge of death one moment and be perfectly fine the next.

"Go grab a pot from the cabinet," he gently murmurs to Emma, just to give the girl something to do. Her face his pale and her eyes are wide, as she continues to stare at Graham like he might keel over at any moment.

"Darlin', I'm fine," he assures as he takes her hand and squeezes. David's heart swells at the gesture, kind of loving that Graham has so enthusiastically accepted Emma as a part of David's life.

She doesn't look entirely placated, but moves to the cabinet and pulls a pot from its depths anyway. She perks up considerably, however, when the doorbell rings and she moves quickly down the hall. If her gasp is anything to go by, it looks as though forgot about the fourth member of their dinner party. David certainly did.

"We expecting company?" Graham asks.

"Emma apparently invited a surprise guest."

The sheriff pales. "Ruby?"

"Not Ruby. I checked," David assures, but Graham still seems to be looking for the nearest exit.

"Not Ruby!" Emma calls as she moves to the door, swinging it open just as David's stomach plummets to the floor.

"Hi, I'm sorry I'm late," the woman says, holding up two bottles of wine apologetically. "I didn't know if I should go with red or white, but since it's spaghetti night, I thought red, but some people don't like red, so I brought both."

She flushes pink, Emma chuckles, and David is absolutely _done_ for.

xxxxxx

"Come on in," Emma welcomes, stepping back and ushering Mary Margaret through.

The house is warm and inviting, not unlike her own, yet she can hear distant laughter in the kitchen, which her apartment has always lacked. Solitary existence is sort of like that, she supposes. The deep timbres make her heart lurch, nearly pounding out of her chest because she knows that of the two, one belongs to him. She might even be able to pick it out of a crowd, despite the fact she's heard him say all of four words:

" _It's – It's all right."_

His chest had been firm when she bumped into it and she's spent the 24 hours that followed trying to forget that particular fact. She takes comfort in knowing that he looked just as stunned as she felt. And so distracted is she by her mental play-by-play that it takes her a moment to realize Emma's still talking.

"… be a little late. We had an issue."

"Oh. No problem." Mary Margaret shakes her head and holds her breath as Emma turns to lead her to the kitchen, and perhaps more importantly, to him.

"Gentlemen, this is Mary Margaret Blanchard – hot chocolate connoisseur and school teacher extraordinaire."

The intro is a little intimidating but it's nothing compared to the look David gives her when she steps through the door. It's unfamiliar, and yet not – as if his gaze has rested on her a thousand times before and still found something new to wonder at.

"Hi," Graham says, standing up and offering a hand. "Graham Humbert."

"Yes, of course, sheriff," Mary Margaret replies and she should feel slightly rude that her eyes keep finding the other man in the room, but with the way he's looking at her in return, she just can't be bothered.

"I believe you two met briefly the other night," Emma begins and Mary Margaret can see the spark in her eye a mile away. The girl has something up her sleeve and it's not hard to deduce what exactly it might be.

"David," he croaks, sticking out his hand abruptly. "David Nolan."

"Mary Margaret Blanchard," she quietly replies, taking it. And the moment their palms touch, something unlike anything she's ever experienced happens. She's _supposed_ to be here, right now in this kitchen. She _knows_ this. She's supposed to be holding this man's hand and attempting to avoid his piercing gaze.

Her life has always been structured and organized, but now, for the first time, it finally feels _right_.

Emma clears her throat and Mary Margaret jumps slightly, dropping David's hand. Graham's glancing between them like it's Christmas come early and to be perfectly honest, she's kind of dreading the mischievous gleam that's sparked in his eye.

"Right, well, I believe I have garlic bread to make," David says, to which Emma promptly replies, "Damn right you do."

Mary Margaret barely knows Emma and she doesn't know David and Graham at all, yet she feels as though she's stood in this kitchen a million times before. Perhaps not in this kitchen, but at least with these people. It's an unnerving feeling.

"What can I do? Put me to work," she announces and David holds up a tomato.

"How are you at salads?"

"I've chopped a fair few in my day," she replies, wondering when exactly she picked up the ability to banter.

"Then salads it is," he says as he tosses the tomato – and banter she might have picked up on, but catching she certainly hadn't – and her desperate attempt to reach for the fruit knocks a jar of pasta sauce off the edge of the table. It shatters on the floor, turning the linoleum into what looks to be the site of a sauce-filled water balloon fight.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, utterly mortified, as Graham reaches to grab a roll of paper towels.

"Why are _you_ sorry?" Emma snorts, gesturing to the sheriff. "He's the one who brought the jar of third rate sauce to begin with. Really, it's all his fault."

"Oi! He threw the tomato!" Graham defends, but Emma merely shrugs.

"Details." She moves to kneel down but David places a protective hand on her arm.

"I've got it," he murmurs, and only then does Mary Margaret see the red stain on the side of his shirt. It's just tomato sauce – she _knows_ that – and yet she can't stop staring. She's been here before. She's seen this before. Red overlaid on white.

" _Please. Please come back to me."_

She's felt the weight of him on her lap, held his head in the crook of her elbow. Begged him to open his eyes, pleaded with him not to leave her alone. Traced his jaw with the pads of her fingertips, recalled his features she found in their daughter's face.

"Mary Margaret?"

She jumps at the touch on her elbow and glances up to find David looking at her with concern. _David._

" _I have a name, you know."_

"Sorry." She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry," she repeats as she comes back to herself and the mess she's created. "You can add 'professional klutz' to my list of accomplishments."

"Nah," David says as he winks and her knees go weak. "Maybe 'athletically challenged' but definitely not 'professional klutz."

She snorts as the red is wiped clean from the white. "You should see me run."

She's good at making jokes at her own expense, but it's a diversion to keep them from seeing just how shaken she is.

" _Please come back to me."_ A whisper in her own voice, yet she cannot define time or place.

The plea continues to haunt her through dinner, dessert and goodbye, because Mary Margaret knows, deep down in the very marrow of her bones, that a life without him in it is no longer an option.

xxxxxx

Emma blinks her eyes open and stretches like a cat, the tips of her fingers brushing the headboard of her little blue bed.

It's Friday, and on Fridays, Ruby takes the morning shift so she can spend Saturday morning recovering from Friday night. Emma was happy to make the trade, having no social life to speak of, save for perhaps spaghetti night, which in itself is a little pathetic. And yet last night was the most fun Emma's had in an incredibly long time – barring Graham's inexplicable collapse, which still makes her ill every time she plays it back in her mind.

But the good certainly outweighed the bad: David and Mary Margaret flirted over sliced tomatoes (and squashed ones), Graham shouted out cooking tips from his assigned seat, David made his famous garlic bread, and Emma – well – Emma got to sit back and watch it all.

And she got to wake the next morning without rushing to the bathroom to throw it all back up again. So far, Friday is looking up.

She throws the covers back and lets her toes sink into the carpet as she stretches her neck. The collar of her cotton t-shirt is frayed, yet she still continues to wear it, despite the fact that most others would have tossed it by now. By Emma's standards, it's in perfect condition: the cotton is soft and the letters are faded and its scent is distinctly hers.

She absentmindedly runs her hand across her abdomen and promptly freezes, glancing down.

"Oh my god!"

She hears a thud, a bang, and then David is charging into her room with a baseball bat held high above his head.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asks with a frown. 

"What am I _doing_?" he pants, slowly lowering the bat. "You screamed. I came running." As if that's all the explanation he needs. Perhaps it is.

"Look!" She takes his hand and tugs him over to the mirror, turning sideways. "I completely popped overnight. One minute I was still relatively small and the next, I've got a basketball in my gut."

"That's a little dramatic."

"Are you not seeing what I'm seeing?!" She takes his chin and points it back to the mirror. "I'm _huge_!"

"You're delusional."

"David!"

"What?" he laughs as he dodges a swipe from her. "Hey, where'd you get that?"

"Get what?" She's still bristling at his complete disregard for how urgent this situation is, so if she's a bit curt, then so what.

"That shirt."

"This?" She pulls the hem away to inspect it upside down. "I don't know. I've always had it."

"Huh." His brow creases at he looks at her thoughtfully. "I went to college there."

"You did?" And she completely forgets that she's supposed to be a little mad at him. "What a coincidence."

"Yeah," he says in a way that indicates he's not entirely sure it is. But that would just be ridiculous.

"Stop getting off topic."

"I didn't realize we were supposed to still be on it," he mutters, dropping the bat and rubbing his eyes. "I'm going back to bed."

"David," she pleads and he freezes at the tone. She's scared. Her growing bump is just further evidence that there is a _person_ inside of her – a person who will depend on her for food, clothing, advice, _life_ – and she can barely depend on herself. "I'm not entirely sure I can do this."

He immediately turns and places his hands on her shoulders, all traces of humor gone. "Yes you can."

"It's too real!"

"The sonogram wasn't real enough?"

Point.

She's beginning to panic and he knows it, yet he continues to stare at her with that blind faith. It's annoyingly endearing.

"Come with me," he murmurs as he releases her shoulders and grabs a pair of her jeans from the foot of the bed.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," he replies and she groans.

Wonderful.

xxxxxx

The jeans David tossed at her that fit just yesterday are no longer an option – and won't be for another five months. Opting for a pair of stretchy workout pants, yet leaving the t-shirt, she grudgingly follows David down the stairs and out the door into the cool morning breeze.

He remains silent the whole way, pausing only for a moment to wave hello to Leroy. Emma keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as he leads her down the streets, towards the marina. His jaw is set, but his eyes are soft and she knows that whatever he's brought her out here to do, it's for her own good.

It's nice to have someone like that.

"Here," he says after a moment and she sucks in a breath as their destination becomes clear.

He's brought her to the ducks.

And suddenly she can't breathe.

"I come here sometimes. It helps clear my head. Not sure why…" he trails off and sits on the wooden bulkhead, patting the seat beside him.

She wordlessly joins him, letting her feet hang over the edge, near some adventurous ducklings who've come to check out her sneakers. And David surprises her yet again when he pulls two pieces of bread out of his pocket and hands one to her.

"I know you want this baby," he says after a moment. "Anyone in that exam room yesterday knows you want this baby. But it's scary, I get that. The question is: _what_ are you afraid of?"

She scoffs, but doesn't trust her voice beyond that. 'Everything,' she wants to answer.

"I know you, Emma. You face everything head on. Why should this be any different?"

'Because it is,' is the reply that gets stuck in her throat, but David doesn't seem to need her response. And for that, she's grateful.

"Are you scared you're gonna screw him up?" he tosses a piece of bread and she watches as the tiniest duck takes it. "Emma, everyone is. You're an adult. I mean – you don't need me… " He exhales sharply as if his words aren't cooperating with him. "You're not even mine and I'm terrified of messing you up."

And of all the things she had expected him to say, that was nowhere near the top ten. And that's it, that when it hits her: she can't lose her family and David is her family. This baby is her family. The pang in her chest is so sharp and so all consuming that she has to swallow hard just to stifle the sob in her throat.

"I need you," she eventually replies, so low and so broken that she's afraid he might not have heard her.

"And you have me. You're not alone." And finally he turns to face her, dropping the rest of his bread in the water, before placing his hands on her hers. "Don't ever, for one second, think you are alone in this. I'm here. Graham is here. Mary Margaret, Granny, Ruby. Hell, even the _ducks_ are here for you," he chuckles and she glances down to find that, indeed, the little furry things seem to find her dangling shoelaces fascinating. "You are not alone, Emma," he finishes, squeezing her hands and leaning forward to place a kiss on her temple.

But suddenly something inside of her _moves_ and she gasps because _whoa_. David pulls away, eyes wide and searching, as if looking for his baseball bat to hit whatever caused her pain.

"What? What's wrong?"

She laughs through her tears and she can't even be bothered to wipe them away as she wordlessly takes his hand and places it on her stomach.

"Em – "

"Wait," she interrupts. "Just wait for it."

He does, eyebrow arched skeptically, but then it happens again and he jumps beside her. "Oh my god! Was that him?"

"Uh huh," she nods, more tears streaming down her face. "That was him."

David laughs and she stares at him through watery eyes to find him in much the same condition. What a pair they make.

Her hand is cold, but she doesn't dare move it from atop his, resting against the worn cotton of an old college t-shirt. Her leather jacket doesn't zip up around her belly anymore, but she finds she's okay with that, as long as it gives her easy access to this. This miracle inside of her.

"Do you really want to give that up?" he finally asks. She shakes her head and a tear splashes on her cheek.

"If I do this, you're stuck with me."

"I'm more than okay with that," he replies, leaving his hand on her stomach but gazing at the ducks. "So… we're keeping him?"

"We're keeping him."

A grin splits his face and she can't stand up against its infectiousness. "I guess we actually _are_ gonna have to get some of those plastic plug thingies."

"I guess so." she replies. And cribs and diapers and formula and clothes and college tuition and…

She immediately halts that line of thinking before she crushes the rest of the bread in her hand and instead, focuses on this moment –

Sitting by the ducks with her baby beneath her palms and her rock by her side.

xxxxxx

Two weeks pass.

Mary Margaret becomes a permanent fixture at spaghetti night, as well as the newly established game night, even though Graham refuses to play Monopoly if Emma's around the board.

Graham doesn't have another episode, but Emma can still see David (when he thinks no one's looking) watching the sheriff as if he'll disappear at any moment.

As for David and Mary Margaret, they dance around each other in a carefully choreographed piece, but neither knows how to lead. Their interactions consist of silent mutual attraction and not much else, like some invisible barrier is set between them.

In her 21st week, Emma and Graham form Operation: Dovetail to remedy that situation. They have walkie-talkies but are still working out codenames. Graham wanted "Renegade." Emma vetoed that immediately.

In her 23rd week, David comes home with more plastic plug thingies than they have outlets. And he definitely electrocutes himself while testing them out, despite what he says to the contrary.

In her 26th week, a box ends up on their doorstep with a note in Mary Margaret's perfect handwriting:

_Found on shelf. First gift for baby. ~MM_

Emma opens it up to find the most beautiful leather bound book she's ever seen with _Once Upon a Time_ embossed on the cover. She gives it a cursory glance and finds it amusing that David looks so much like the guy on the fifth page.

In her 27th week, the bell rings over the door in Granny's and a man she's never seen before sits down at the counter. Even Emma has now grown wary of strangers despite the fact that she herself was one not all that long ago.

"Can I help you?" she asks. 

"Black coffee, please," he answers. "And a slice of that pie, if you wouldn't mind."

He doesn't look all that much older than she is… Still. David and Graham will want to know if there's someone new in town.

"I don't think I've seen you before." She's fishing and she has a feeling he knows it.

"Probably because I've never been here before," he replies and, yep, she's definitely busted.

"In that case, I'm Emma," she recovers, sticking out her hand and watching as he places his motorcycle helmet on the seat beside him to grasp it.

"Pleased to meet you, Emma," the stranger says with a smile. "I'm August. August W. Booth."


	17. Strangers

"Really? W?" she quips and he offers her a wry smile. 

"'Fraid so."

He expects the sass but not the prominent baby bump that prevents her from pushing his coffee too far across the counter. He hasn't seen her in nearly seven months, but he'd kept tabs on her. Gotten word from here and there. He knew she was pregnant, but perhaps the idea didn't really hit home until he walked through that door.

He gets a pang somewhere deep inside his chest – in a place he had thought stopped feeling long ago. He was supposed to protect her. To watch out for her. And now she has a record and a baby on the way.

" _Think of me as Emma's guardian angel."_

" _Guardian angel? I'd say you've been doing a pretty crap job."_

"When did you get in?" she asks and he takes a moment to study her features. She still has the same nose, eyes, and chin he remembers from so long ago, staring up at him from a nest of white wool. He sees her like that in his haunted memories and bad dreams, wondering what she did to make him abandon her.

"Just this morning," he answers, careful not to hold her gaze for too long.

" _I've been looking for her for the past two years."_

He thinks she's warming to him, because she asks him if he has a place to say and he knows she's not doing it just to be polite.

"Well, first on the list was pie and second was lodging. I've got the pie," he gestures to the oozing cherry goodness in front of him with his fork, "and I'm pretty sure I know where to find a bed."

And before he can even finish the sentence, an older woman is at his side, guest book in hand.

"Square view or forest view?"

August smiles and scoops a bite into his mouth. "Surprise me."

The older woman narrows her eyes, before blushing and scribbling something on the paper. "Come see me when you're done."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emma arches an eyebrow and refills his coffee cup without him having to ask. "Stop flirting with Granny," she admonishes. "You'll give her ideas."

He barks out a laugh. "Trust me, I think those ideas were already in her head."

Emma scrunches her nose, as if she'd never considered that possibility and leans her elbows on the counter with not a little difficulty. If his math is right, she's gotta be nearly eight months pregnant. He allows himself a flicker of a smile as he wonders if it's a boy or girl.

"So where are you from?" she asks, breaking his train of thought.

"Uh – all over really," is his reply. He knows she's trying to figure him out, but she won't have much luck.

Until she realizes that the man she's placed her trust in is actually her father, there's no way on this earth or any other that the concept of Pinocchio will be anything more than a bedtime story.

xxxxxx

David sighs as he tries to find a file Graham _swears_ he left on his desk, but the clutter seems to cover every available space, leaving the chances of finding anything of consequence slim to none.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, wanting nothing more than to wrap this up and go home. He hasn't been sleeping because every time he gets close to unconsciousness, his brain remembers one more thing they've yet to get for the baby. Two nights ago, it was pacifiers. Last night, it was diaper cream.

And don't even get him started on the crib.

He thought they had everything picked out, but then Emma went into nesting mode and no crib was the right crib. So now they're mere weeks away from her due date, with no place to put the baby if he comes early. And he _still_ can't find the damn file on Graham's desk!

"David?" Emma hollers as she enters the bullpen. 

"In here," he calls distractedly, lifting up papers and books he knows the sheriff never reads.

"What are you doing?"

"Supposedly my job."

"Cleaning up after Graham?" she asks with a smile.

"That too," he chuckles. Giving up on the file, he sighs and finally glances up at her. She looks tired. And sore, if the way she's fidgeting is any indication. She's taken to wearing his leather jacket and she pulls it tight across her stomach as far as it will go. Her adored red one is hanging in the hall closet gathering dust, and David is finding that Emma has a penchant for pilfering his closet. Yesterday is was a pair of sweatpants. Today, it's the scarf currently wrapped around her neck.

She's stifling a yawn and he's about to suggest they forget the file and just go home, but the phone rings and he's really hoping it's just Graham reminding him to pick up garlic bread ingredients for tomorrow's spaghetti night.

"Sheriff Station," he answers, holding up a finger in Emma's direction to give him a minute.

"Deputy Nolan," the voice on the other end says, and David inwardly groans _._

"What can I do for you, Mr. Gold?"

"It appears I've had a break-in."

 _Damn._ "I'll be right over." He rests the phone against his forehead for a moment, before returning it to the receiver.

"Duty calls?" Emma asks, a spark lighting up her face once more and he nods.

"I'll call Mary Margaret to bring you home."

"I can drive myself," she argues.

"You can't fit behind the wheel."

"Oh low blow." She glares at him before glancing around, as if looking for the nearest item to throw in his direction. "Let me come."

"Absolutely not."

"Come _on._ You've gotta let me get my kicks in somewhere. There's only so much excitement at Granny's!"

He wants her nowhere near a crime scene and yet she's looking at him with _those_ eyes, and in all the time she's been here with him, he's never been able to say 'no' when she fixes him with that look.

"Fine."

"Yes!"

"But you say nothing, you touch nothing, and you go no further than three feet away from me at all times," he instructs, already regretting his decision despite the fact that her face just lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Yes, sir," she mock salutes, looping her arm through his as he exits Graham's office, flicking off the lights. "So where to?"

"Gold's," David mutters, slipping his holster around his shoulders and holding the door open for Emma.

"Oh, P.S., there's a new guy in town," she says off-handedly and David halts, because he doesn't like the sound of that.

"A new guy?"

"Yeah, August W. Booth or something."

No, he doesn't like the sound of that at all.

xxxxxx

Emma's sticking close to David and not because Mr. Gold has been creeping her out ever since he learned her name.

" _Emma. What a lovely name."_

He's been staring at her as if waiting for something to happen. Something momentous, which leaves her with a general sense of inadequacy and disappointment when nothing out of the ordinary occurs.

She almost wishes she had taken David up on his offer to call Mary Margaret to bring her home, but they're outside the pawn shop and really, there's no turning back now.

"Stay here," he murmurs, squeezing her arm and reaching for the knob on the already opened door.

"Don't leave me," she pleads rather uncharacteristically, grabbing his wrist, because she's not sure what's beyond that door and she doesn't want him going in there alone.

"Emma – "

"Please." Her grip tightens and he gazes at her curiously for a moment, as if wondering what exactly has gotten into her, before giving a reluctant nod and taking her hand in his.

"Fine. Come on."

David pushes the door open to find Gold leaning against a glass display case with an unconscious man at his feet.

"Mr. Gold," David greets rather dryly. "I see you've handled things." He nods to the man on the floor and Gold shrugs.

"His name is Jefferson," the older man says, his gaze lingering on David and Emma's clasped hands. "He was after this…" Gold steps sideways to reveal the most beautiful glass mobile Emma's ever seen, but that's not what has her undivided attention. No, what has her attention is David's grip on her palm, which tightens dramatically at the reveal. It takes her a second to realize that Gold is watching him the same way he watches her. As if waiting for something to happen.

"Where did you get that?" David asks which, given the circumstances, Emma finds an odd choice for a first question.

"Oh I've had it for eighteen years or so. It's on loan," Gold says with a smile, his eyes finding hers and holding her under the weight of his gaze.

David starts to leave her side and move towards it, but she sticks to his hip, moving with him like a magnet. He pushes a glass unicorn with the tip of his finger and sends fragmented light dancing across the walls.

"Why did he want it?" David's voice sounds years away, and Emma's starting to grow concerned. She's seen him on duty before – he goes straight for the perpetrator and begins nailing out the details. He doesn't let evidence distract him like this. _Haunt_ him like this.

"Oh who knows, really," Gold replies in a tone that suggests he knows exactly why.

Emma leaves David staring at the mobile to glance at the man on the ground. He's bleeding from a wound on his temple, but otherwise, seems none the worse for wear.

"David?"

"Hm?" It takes him a moment longer to pry his eyes away from the mobile, and when he does, Emma nods towards the man on the ground.

"Handcuffs?"

"Oh, right." He steps forward and binds the man's hands behind his back, shaking him slightly and receiving a grunt in response.

Gold is still watching them carefully and Emma moves towards David, pressing herself into his side. She loves that he knows her silences well enough by now to know that she's uneasy, and he places a hand on her lower back and rubs small circles as the man before them slowly reaches consciousness.

"Jesus, Gold," he groans. "You didn't have to use the cane."

"Be good," the broker replies. "We have company."

The man – Jefferson – squints one eye open and first spies David's boot, following his leg up until his eyes land on his face.

"Deputy," he begins. "Charmed, I'm sure."

David rolls his eyes and steps away from Emma to haul the man to his feet.

"Ah, Emma…" his voice is soft, but his tone is a little bit… off.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you – "

"Don't talk to her," David snaps, shaking Jefferson hard and causing the man to erupt into laughter.

"Oh, if you only knew…" he shakes his head sadly, glancing forlornly at the mobile in Gold's hand. "That's attempt number two failed. As they say, third time's the charm."

David raises an eyebrow and glances at Gold. "Do you know what he's talking about?"

Gold shrugs. "Haven't the faintest."

He's lying, but Emma would prefer to make her assumptions known in the privacy of the sheriff's office. David manhandles Jefferson into a chair and gently leads Emma away from him.

"Mr. Gold, if you'll just fill out this incident report, I'll take him down to the station for questioning."

"Of course, deputy. Anything I can do to _speed_ the process along." It isn't _what_ he says, but rather whom he says it to that has the hairs on the back of Emma's neck standing on end. Gold's smiling an impish grin in her direction and it's only because David is filling out his portion of the report and therefore not seeing the look, that Gold remains without bodily harm.

"You've been here before," Jefferson says behind her, and she turns to find him eyeing her curiously. "Remember?"

"What are you talking about?" she keeps her voice low, because despite what David says – and despite the fact that she knows he has her best interests at heart – she has a feeling that she _needs_ to hear what this man has to say.

"You've been here before."

"Of course I've been to Gold's shop before."

"Not the shop, the town. You've been to Storybrooke before." He says it so simply and yet the words knock her silent, because he's touched on something she's been denying since the moment she first arrived.

She's been here before. There's no way someone can have such a strong sense of déjà vu with every new person and building they come across and not have encountered them at least one other time in their lives.

"Yes," he whispers. "You remember."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She'd be so much more convincing if her voice didn't shake. Her ears roar with every pulse of her beating heart and yet she can't look away from the restrained man with the slightly mad smile, sitting calmly in front of her. His calmness is only a front though, and she can practically taste the desperation marking his every look.

"Remember the ducks."

" _I can't remember. He took me to the ducks."_

"Em? You ready?" David's voice breaks through the fog in her mind and she finds herself nodding absentmindedly and moving toward him without really registering the action. By the time she finally looks up, she's nearly face to face with Gold, who's holding out the mobile.

"A gift," he says. "For your pains."

Though it's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen, Emma isn't entirely sure she wants something Mr. Gold is handing out. But she waits to take her cue from David and when he gives her a slight nod, his gaze never straying far from the mobile, she takes the proffered object from Gold's hand.

"Thank you."

"Your boy will like that," he murmurs and she frowns. 

"How'd you know it was a boy?"

Gold shrugs but his eyes dance. "Lucky guess."

xxxxxx

Despite the summer month, the night air is cool and Mary Margaret wraps the jacket around her tighter as she leans against the side of David's truck. She had been on her way home from Granny's, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emma, but was informed by Ruby that the blonde had worked the early shift. Despite that initial disappointment, she still won't admit to nearly gasping when she saw David's truck parked outside of the pawnshop.

Nope, she definitely did not do that.

And so she waits patiently, figuring he's here on business, because it's not everyday David finds himself at the pawnshop and certainly not at 9:30 on a Wednesday night.

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens and Mary Margaret is rewarded not only with David, but also with Emma as the two come striding down the sidewalk.

"We could hang it over the crib," she hears Emma suggest as they walk towards the car. What catches her eye, though, is the way David forces a smile in return and she wonders briefly when she started to be able to tell the difference.

"You mean the non-existent crib?" he replies, causing Emma to chuckle, and only then does Mary Margaret notice the object in the girl's hands. A beautiful glass baby mobile and the sight of it causes the breath to catch in her throat.

She's seen that before.

"Oh just the person I wanted to bump into," David breathes, hurrying towards her. Normally, a declaration like that would have her knees buckling, but she can't seem to tear her gaze away from the fragile creation catching the moonlight. "I have to take someone down to the station," he says, gesturing back towards the pawnshop. "Would you mind taking Emma home?"

"Love to," she whispers, trying so hard to look away from the blue figurines. Only when David's fingers gently brush her wrist does she look into his eyes - blue orbs that seem to hold the weight of a very befuddled world. He watches her watch the mobile and a silent sense of understanding seems to pass between them. She's not sure what it is, but it's something.

And where David Nolan is concerned, she'll take whatever she can get.

xxxxxx

Regina watches as Emma gets into the car with Snow and Charming turns back to the pawnshop.

Jefferson is proving to be far more troublesome than his damnation is really worth and she's debating on whether she wants to run the risk of someone actually believing his mad ravings or whether she should just snuff out the problem now. It wouldn't take much, after all.

The taillights of Charming's truck disappear around the corner and Regina sighs, stepping a well-heeled foot out of her car and slamming the door shut. She doesn't have the patience for this.

The shop is musty but she can still make out the would-be thief slumped on a chair and the owner leaning gaily against a display case.

"Mr. Gold, I trust everything is in order?" She arches an eyebrow, sparing a disdainful glance for Jefferson and the man hauling him to his feet.

"It is now, Madam Mayor. Thanks to our deputy here."

She stifles the urge to roll her eyes and instead offers an, "Excellent."

Her gaze lingers on Gold a little longer than necessary. The moment Emma's name was uttered in the diner, Regina knew exactly who she was. The question is whether or not Gold's caught on too. She's not sure what triggered his memory last time. A failsafe the son of a bitch built into the curse, no doubt. But if he knows now, he's playing it safe.

Or merely biding his time.

"So kind of you to drop in," he says, limping back and allowing Charming to pass by with Jefferson, the latter of whom offers her a wild-eyed grin.

"Worried, Regina?" he asks and Charming elbows him.

"Hardly," she drawls, but despite her bravado, she can't help the way her stomach knots every time she sees them together. The family that's become her own personal hell.

"You should be," Jefferson spits out and, for once, Regina is actually grateful to Charming for giving him a firm shove and gruff, "Shut up."

"Just doing my civic duty," she replies, winking. "Give Grace my love."

And that's what does it. Jefferson lunges at her and it's only Charming's firm grip on his torso that keeps the man from tackling her to the ground, despite the handcuffs on his wrists.

The door swings shut behind them, muffling Jefferson's shouts, and Regina runs her fingers through her hair as if putting everything back in its place.

"Well, I'm glad that nasty business is behind us," Gold says as he tips his cane, and it's all Regina can do not to snort. If only.

The imp turns back to his counter, straightening some knick-knacks that had been knocked over during the scuffle and Regina watches his back for a moment, wondering for the first time if the man really does not know.

She'd like to think she's been getting good at looking out for the signs; she's been watching Charming and Emma long enough to become an expert, but the little family fate keeps throwing together doesn't seem to be making any progress, so she's leaving them alone. For now.

Like Gold, she can bide her time. After all, time is all she has.

xxxxxx

August's knee is bouncing up and down as he stares around the empty sheriff's station. It's not his first time in this sort of setting unfortunately, but for once he's here for relatively benign reasons. Still. He's never been the _only_ one in a sheriff's station and so he decides to take advantage of the situation and have a look around.

There's a sonogram picture on the bulletin board – Emma's, no doubt – as well as some take-out cartons in the trashcan. Files upon files are stacked on the desks in relatively organized towers, but it's the picture in the corner that catches his eye.

Emma and David are sitting by the water, heads thrown back in near-identical laughter and for a moment, August's breath catches in his throat, because _how_ can anyone take a look at this picture and not realize they are staring at father and daughter?

Knowing that Emma is thisclose to finding that which she's searched for all her life physically pains him, and he has to sit down once more under the enormity of the task before him. He doesn't get long to brood, though, as headlights flash through the window and car doors slam a moment later.

"I leave you alone for _five minutes_ ," a voice says in the lobby, followed by a thud, a grunt, and some more shuffling, before the doors to the bullpen bang open and three men come tumbling through.

"I said I could handle it," the other voice says and August immediately straightens, because he'd know that voice anywhere.

Prince James.

"If you'd just remember, this would be so much easier!" the third says and the sheriff claps his hand over his mouth while the Prince goes to get the keys to the cell.

Somewhere under the deafening beat of his thumping heart, he registers amusement at the fact that no one's noticed him yet, but then the crazy guy with his hands cuffed behind his back wrestles free of the sheriff's grip and locks eyes on him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks and everyone stops.

August wants to disappear into the wall, but unfortunately walls like that don't exist in this world.

"Uh…" he stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and taking a step toward the only man, other than his father, that he wanted to be like. "I'm August W. Booth. I'm new to town and I heard you're not too fond of strangers, so I thought I'd introduce myself."

He receives three bewildered stares in return, before the Prince seems to come to his senses and take a step forward. "I heard about you. You met Emma."

"Yeah," August replies, breathing out a sigh of relief. "I met Emma."

The Prince – David – is staring at him appraisingly and August audibly gulps. This is the man who defended a kingdom, taught him how to use a sword, and still has no idea that the boy standing before him took his wife's place in a magical wardrobe with a promise to protect his only daughter.

David holds his hand out and, after a moment, August takes it. The Prince's gaze is fierce, but it's the man in the handcuffs that has him truly unsettled. He's staring at him as if he sees straight through him. Straight through the leather jacket and the jeans to the wooden boy beneath.

"What brings you to Storybrooke?" the Prince asks, and August swallows hard just to keep the truth from spilling from his lips.

"I broke a promise," he opts for instead and he's not sure if it's the look of remorse on his face or the shake in his voice, but the man to whom he owes his life doesn't ask for details.

And for that, August is eternally grateful.

xxxxxx

It takes two weeks for Jefferson to be moved to the psych ward and during those fourteen days, Emma stays away from the sheriff station.

xxxxxx

David hangs the mobile from the ceiling on a Friday and on the following Wednesday, he comes home to find a disassembled crib in the middle of the room with a note written in Mary Margaret's familiar scrawl:

_We picked this out today. She didn't want anyone to build it but you._

It takes him six days to follow all of the instructions, check and re-check every bolt and screw. Emma teases him, saying it's worse than the incident with the plastic plug thingies, but he catches her looking at him softly when she thinks he isn't paying attention.

xxxxxx

On a Friday a few weeks later, Emma has grown strangely quiet as she stretches out on the couch, her feet in David's lap. Normally, she has a running commentary going for this particular TV show, but she hasn't made a single snarky comment and David finds he misses it.

"Do we have any ice cream?"

"In the freezer," he replies.

"No I ate that." She rubs her hand across her stomach and David watches her guardedly out of the corner of his eye.

"I can go get you some."

She sighs and eyes the height from the couch to the floor, perhaps wondering if the struggle to stand is worth the effort. David chuckles and squeezes her ankle, gently lifting her feet off his lap.

"All right, I'll get my coat," she mutters as she allows him to help her to her feet. They're supposed to walk. The doctor said moving might help the baby along, and she's long since stopped declaring that she doesn't need any help, for which David is grateful. Stubborn Emma is enough to deal with. Stubborn and hormonal Emma is a foe no man should have to face.

He stands by as she searches the closet for a jacket that might fit her, but suddenly her movements still and when she draws back, she's holding what looks to be a worn piece of wood in her hand.

Oh. It's more than just a piece of wood. It's a wooden sword.

"Where did you get this?" she whispers, running her fingers along the grooves, the whirls themselves like the tree's own life story.

"I – I don't know," he answers honestly, frowning slightly as he steps forward to take a closer look. "I've never seen that before."

"But it's in your closet." Her tone is urgent, like she needs him to see what she sees, but even she doesn't seem to fully understand, as she whispers, "I had a sword like this when I was little." She swallows hard and David is surprised to find a tear slip onto her cheek. "I played with it so much, I broke it. I so desperately wanted to learn."

And he doesn't know what to say to that. He _can't_ say anything to that. Not when his own emotions are so conflicted…

_"What if you kept one? It's silly for me to have two. You haven't taught me how to fight yet, so I can't play with anyone else until I play with you."_

_"Okay. I'll keep one. But just for you."_

"David?"

"Yeah?"

She places the sword almost reverently back on the shelf and hands him her coat in a calm manner that doesn't even remotely prepare him for what leaves her mouth next.

"I think my water just broke."


	18. Arrivals

Hyperventilation.

That's what he's registering right now. Not him personally, he's fine. Well actually, he's on the complete opposite side of the 'fine' spectrum, but Emma is beginning to hyperventilate and having his own personal meltdown will help absolutely no one.

"Okay," he nods. "Okay."

She grips his wrists, all semblance of the prior moment's calm gone, as she looks up at him with wide eyes, skin rapidly paling.

"Emma, breathe."

"I'm not having a contraction yet."

"But you're holding your breath. Don't do that." He tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles when she refuses to let go of his wrists. "Emma, look at me."

She shakes her head, staring resolutely at the floor. "I can't do this – "

"Sweetheart, look at me." He cups her cheeks in his palm, lifting her face to his. "You can do this, Emma. I have faith in you."

A tear splashes onto her skin and she inhales a rattling breath. "This is happening."

"This is happening."

"I can't do this."

"Yes you can. One step at a time," he soothes, brushing her tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

"It's too soon! He's early. He's not supposed to be early."

David's heart constricts because, yes, he's thought about that too. It is early, but perhaps not _too_ early. He can only pray it's not too early.

"Emma, he is going to be fine," he says, hoping the fates don't make a liar out of him. "I need you to listen to me. We're doing this in steps, right?"

"Uh huh."

"First, you're going to put this on." He holds out the coat and she turns to slide her arms through the sleeves.

"Then what?"

"You're going to sit on the couch, still breathing, while I run and get your bag. Okay?" She nods but it's not good enough for him. "I need you to say 'okay."

"Okay," she murmurs.

"Good girl." His eyes never quite leave her as she makes her way to the couch, and he runs through the kitchen and into the laundry room, grabbing her bag at the same time as he grabs the phone off the counter. It doesn't take him long to dial the numbers he knows by heart and when Mary Margaret picks up on the second ring, he sags against the wall for support.

"Hello?"

"Emma's in labor, I need help." He hears her suck in a breath, but he realizes he needs more than that. He needs her voice. He just needs _her._ "I told her it would all be okay, but I'm not sure it will be."

"David," she says calmly. It's a mere whisper yet it holds his attention rapt. "Emma is going to be fine."

"How do you know?" he asks, sounding more vulnerable than he'd care to. 

"Because she has _you,"_ is the simple reply.

His throat constricts and he wants to thank her, but his words won't work.

"You'll come?" he finally chokes out.

She's quiet for a moment, before offering, "If you want me to."

"I need you to."

"Then I'll meet you there."

He should go – Emma's waiting for him – but he can't quite disconnect. Not yet.

"David?"

"Yes?"

"I'll meet you there," she reiterates, unknowingly quelling the last little fear in his heart that he'd have to be there for Emma alone.

"Okay." Finally, he hangs the phone back on the receiver and tightens his grip on the handle of Emma's bag, schooling his panicked features into some semblance of calm.

"David?" Her voice is pained and his heart jumps into his throat almost as quickly as he bolts to the living room.

"Right here, squirt." The nickname is effortless, but he can't be bothered to wonder where it came from.

She smiles and winces, automatically reaching out for his hand. "This is going to suck, isn't it."

He watches as her knuckles whiten around his, and he marvels at her strength. "It's not gonna be pleasant. But I'm going to be with you the entire time."

"You won't leave?"

His heart breaks at the combination of genuine wonder and fear on her face, as if the concept of anyone staying by her side is completely foreign.

"I'll never leave." He places a kiss on her knuckles and helps her stand. "Let's go have a baby."

She nods, jaw firm. Determined.

"Let's."

xxxxxx

" _Dr. Whale, please report to OR two,"_ the speaker blares overhead and Mary Margaret glares at it while continuing her trek from the waiting room to the front desk and back again.

She's gnawing on the end of a pen and wearing a hole in the tiled floor, glancing at the front door every time it opens, expecting to see David and Emma and swallowing disappointment every time it's not.

Her heart is hammering a rapid, insistent beat, threatening to burst out of her chest every time she hears the familiar _woosh_ of the sliding doors. She shouldn't be this nervous – it's not like _she's_ the one having the baby – and yet the thought of Emma in pain, of her going through that, makes the teacher slightly ill.

"Mary Margaret!" His voice is muffled, but she'd know it anywhere and she spins so quickly, she loses her balance.

"David?"

He's on the other side of the glass helping Emma into a wheelchair, and she hurries forward just as the doors slide open, quickly noting the panic on his face and the pain on Emma's.

Emma is reaching over her head and holding tight to David's wrist, since he needs both hands to steer, but the hand that's not grabbing onto him immediately reaches for Mary Margaret once she's close enough to touch.

The older woman stifles a gasp as Emma squeezes _hard_.

"Breathe, sweetheart," she finds herself murmuring as her anxiety dissipates and instinct takes over.

"It hurts," Emma groans.

"I know it does, baby," David says, and even he sounds pained as he flags down a nurse. Their eyes lock and for a moment, Mary Margaret forgets how to breathe, letting her hand rest on top of his as it grips the handle of the wheelchair. "Thank you," he mouths, relief shining through his gaze.

She nods and runs her thumb across his knuckles, letting go and breaking the stare only when the need to focus on where she's walking becomes paramount.

They're shown to a room and Emma has yet to let go of either David or Mary Margaret, despite the fact that she hasn't had a contraction since arriving. Actually, the girl seems to not be letting David move any farther than five feet away from her and any time it looks like he's about to, her eyes widen and she holds her breath until he moves back once more.

"What do you need?" he asks as he perches on the edge of the bed, and Mary Margaret is hit with such a sense of déjà vu that she doesn't even crack a smile when Emma's immediate response is "An epidural."

" _I can't have this baby now."_

" _Doc, do something." His cheek presses against her temple, his hand tight against her chest. "The wardrobe's almost finished. Just – just hold on."_

Doc…

An older man breezes through the door, adjusting his glasses on his face. "Well, Miss Swan. I'm seeing you earlier than expected."

"Is it too early? It's too early!" Emma cries, gasping as another contraction hits her. 

Mary Margaret's mind is swimming, grasping at any memory – any vision – that might make her float.

" _It's too late. We can't move her."_

" _Push!"_

She blinks under the harsh fluorescents to find David looking at her strangely, Emma's hand tight in his. The doctor is talking, but Mary Margaret is only catching every other word:

"Fine… fully developed… sonogram… monitor…"

She wants to move to Emma's other side, an unknown desire making her want the girl to be flanked by both them. Mary Margaret and David, two battlements in a war. But the visions still dancing in her head and the voices echoing in her ears root her to the floor.

"… examination… centimeters… epidural."

Oh. Examination.

She shakes her head, coming back to herself and giving the doctor a tight smile. "I'll be outside."

David stands to join her, but Emma grips his arm. "Don't you dare leave."

"Emma – " he starts, but she shakes her head stubbornly. 

"Please. Just, you know, stay near my head." She gestures vaguely to her blanket-covered legs and he chuckles, eventually nodding.

"Fine."

Mary Margaret edges toward the door, stopping only when Emma calls her name.

"Yes?" She turns and sees David in the girl's face, as well as something else strangely familiar… But any shared features are a complete impossibility so Mary Margaret banishes the thought from her mind.

Gratitude and warmth shine through Emma's voice as she says, "Thank you for coming."

Mary Margaret inhales sharply, knowing that she'd do anything the people on that bed ever asked of her.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

xxxxxx

Graham hates hospitals.

He hates the harsh overhead lights and the constant scent of rubbing alcohol that seems to cling to his clothes for days. He hates the grief in the waiting room and the smugness on Whale's face when he makes a correct diagnosis.

Most of all, he hates that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever someone he cares about is admitted. And right now, that feeling is tying his insides into the most complicated of knots.

He turns the corner to find Mary Margaret sitting in a chair in the hallway, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. He likes catching her off-guard, since so rarely does she not have a front up. It's been a genuine pleasure watching her become comfortable around him – around _them_ – over the past few weeks. She's rapidly becoming one of his favorite people, even if she kicks his ass at poker.

"The bastard called you instead of me. _I_ was supposed to be the first call," he pouts, falling into the seat next to Mary Margaret and slinging his arm over the back of her chair.

"What?" She's distracted – worried over Emma, no doubt. He knows the feeling well.

"David promised me he'd call the moment Emma went into labor. The only reason I'm here is because I saw his truck in the lot and put two and two together."

She smiles and pats his knee. "I'm sorry. David needed a little… encouragement."

"You passing out any more?" he jokes, but his knee is bouncing – a dead giveaway for his high anxiety levels.

"Always," she softly replies, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. It's a brave front, even though he can see the worry etched into her features.

"How long's she been in there?"

"A few hours," is the response and Graham swallows.

He wants to tell her it'll all be fine, pat though the response may be, but the door opens before he can get a word out and David strides into the hallway looking like a man whose calm façade is rapidly cracking.

"You," Graham points. "Big trouble."

"I'm sorry I didn't call." David's shoulders slump and Graham smiles, standing and wrapping his arms around the man who looks to be a second away from shattering to pieces.

"No permanent damage done." He pulls away but David's eyes aren't on him; they're gazing over his shoulder to Mary Margaret. And Graham wants to be jealous – he's been the only person David had to turn to for so long – and yet he can't deny that Mary Margaret and David just _fit_ together. Even if they don't quite know it themselves.

He only hopes he finds someone to match his own puzzle piece.

"Graham, can you keep Emma company for a minute?"

His eyes widen in a way that says, _'Do not leave me alone with her,'_ but David gives him a look and Graham swallows hard.

"Okay."

Time alone with a woman in labor. There was no on-the-job training for this particular scenario.

Graham really does hate hospitals.

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret watches Graham trudge a little apprehensively toward the door, and it's only when it shuts behind him that David crumbles before her.

"What happened?!" She's pretty sure her heart has stopped beating and it's only when David speaks again that blood returns to her face.

"She's fine," he mumbles through the fingers that rub his eyes. "She's fine, the baby's fine, but _jesus_ …"

Mary Margaret's arms are around him a moment later, and she actually feels the fight seep out of him as he sags against her small frame. He allows himself to be led into a chair and he sinks into it, taking Mary Margaret with him. She goes willingly, keeping one arm around his neck and moving the other to the hand in his lap. Her fingers rub circles by his jawline, just below his ear, and the tension eases from his shoulders as he sighs deeply.

"Better?" 

"So much," he quietly replies, squeezing her fingers.  

"It must be hard playing the calm, strong type," she whispers and he chuckles.

"You have no idea." His gaze finds the door as if he can see Emma through it. "The slightest thing will set her off. She's so strong and she doesn't let the panic show, but…"

"You can see it."

He nods. "I can see it. And it's killing me."

Her fingers move from his jaw to his collar, gently rubbing the material between her thumb and forefinger. It's an incredibly intimate gesture – one she never thought she'd have the courage to make – but David sighs and closes his eyes, leaning sideways and resting his temple against her chin.

If Mary Margaret could stay like this forever, she would.

She takes the moment to study him: his creased brow and the jumping muscle in his jaw. The vein by his temple that pulses with every beat of his heart and the way he interlaces their fingers with practiced ease. As if he's been doing it for years.

He would be a wonderful father. He _is_ a wonderful father.

She's loathe to break this moment, but there's something she needs to say. Something he needs to hear. "David?"

"Hm?" He doesn't open his eyes, merely squeezes her hand again to let her know she has his undivided attention.

"I know your life is about to gain another member, but if there's room for one more, I'd like to volunteer for the spot."

Her heart is pounding because she's never made herself more vulnerable in her life, but before she even has time to second-guess herself, David is sitting up and staring into her face, searching her eyes for answers she's more than willing to give.

"It's yours," he breathes, pressing his lips to hers and eliciting a little noise from the back of her throat.

She sinks into it, moving her hand from his palm to his wrist as he reaches up to cup her cheek and bring her closer. Eventually, her fingers find their way to his shirt and she fists the material in her hands, wanting to never ever be parted from him.

The fear of losing him hits her like a train and it's so palpable that her breath hitches in her throat. He slowly pulls away, pressing a kiss to her nose and each of her eyelids as his thumb strokes her cheekbone.

"It's always been yours."

And though she's only known him for a few weeks, she doesn't doubt the sentiment one bit.

xxxxxx

"I spy with, my little eye, something white."

Emma scoffs, rolling her eyes at the sheriff. "The whole damn room is white."

"Which is why my clue is the best ever," he retorts and she laughs.

She's happy he's here, despite the fact that she does wish David would return. Graham is her comic relief but David is her rock. He handles her contractions with grace and calm, while Graham looks terrified and a second away from bolting to the door.

"How far along are you?" he asks, leaning back and propping his feet up on the foot of her bed.

"Almost there. Apparently I was in labor a lot longer than I thought."

Graham frowns. "How is that possible?"

She glares. "You know, you try being over eight months pregnant when everything in your body hurts and you tell me the difference between – "

"Whoa, whoa there," he says, holding up his hands, eyes wide. "Don't kill me, because then David would have to arrest you and where would that leave us?"

She settles for throwing a pillow at him before promptly demanding it back.

"Have you thought of a name?" he asks and she inhales sharply, but there's a small smile on her face.

"I have."

"And?" Graham leans forward and she kind of loves how invested he's become.

"Not tellin'."

"Aw come on!"

"David gets to hear it first," she replies and the scowl on Graham's face eases.

"Fair enough."

She's about to tell him he can be godfather, though, figuring it's enough of a consolation prize, but her stomach muscles clench without warning – usually she gets a warning – and she cries out, slamming one hand down on the rail and reaching the other one out to Graham.

He's at her side a second later, perched on the edge of the bed and holding her tight to him. She must be crushing every bone in his hand, but he doesn't protest one bit. Merely murmurs soft encouragement in her ear as tears stream down her face.

They're getting worse. And closer together. Much closer together.

"You've got it, darlin'. And I've got you," he whispers and she knows he does. Behind David, Graham is the one she'd most trust with her life. With her son's life. With their happiness.

The door opens and her heart jumps but it's not David, it's Doc, and he spares a glance for the sheet of paper the monitor at her side is spewing out before informing her that it's time.

_Oh God._

She's ready, but she's not. She's not emotionally or physically equipped for this.

"David!" she cries out, not even really knowing if he's within earshot, but he appears in the doorway a moment later and she sobs at the sight of him.

"I'm here," he says, striding over to her and taking the hand that Graham's deftly passing off. Something unsaid is communicated between them, spoken only through the grip Graham places on David's shoulder and the nod the sheriff receives in return.

She can see Mary Margaret in the doorway, blowing her a kiss and she nods, hoping she looks more confident than she feels.

Graham is eventually ushered into the hall by a nurse and he stands for a moment next to Mary Margaret, placing his hands over his chest – over his heart – as if to say _'I'm here with you.'_

She nods again and he smiles before the door hides them both from view.

"Stay near my head," she reiterates, though her voice is wobbly and her body is wracked with sobs.

"Okay," David softly replies, placing a kiss in her sweaty hair and helping her sit up by sliding his arm behind her back.

Doc and the nurses set up for a few more minutes – minutes that she registers as nothing but pain and tears. David's side pressed against hers is the only source of comfort and she catalogues everything about him she can, just to make the seconds go by faster. His blue plaid shirt and his faded jeans. The paint spattered on his boots from the baby's room. The cut on his knuckle from hammering the crib together. The faded pen marks on his hand listing diapers, formula and wipes. The way he smells like coffee, pine and soap. The way his hand engulfs hers. The way he's been pretending to be fine for the past five hours, but she knows he's been worrying for the past five months.

"Okay, Emma…" Doc begins. "On three, I want you to push."

She can't do this.

"You can do this, Emma," David whispers.

"Three…"

She can't do this.

"Two…"

"I've got you, squirt."

She can do this.

"One…"

She bears down with all her might, wondering how many blood vessels she'll pop before her labor is through.

"Breathe, Emma," David firmly instructs and she takes a rattling inhalation.

Her body feels like it's being torn in two, but Doc tells her to push again so she does, running on nothing but maternal instinct and autopilot, holding onto to every syllable David whispers in her ear.

"Good! The shoulders are out."

The shoulders. Her baby has _shoulders_.

She sobs and falls back, expecting to hit the pillow, but landing against David's firm chest instead. When did he move behind her? 

"Just a bit more. You're doing _so well,_ " he says and she's so delirious, she actually believes him.

"Three, two, one!" Doc counts down once more and she pushes with energy that ran out long ago.

David is firm, calming presence at her back, holding both of her hands and whispering things she can't even hear anymore, not over her screams, but then a noise erupts in the room, cutting through everything else.

A wail.

"Open your eyes, Emma." David is crying and his tears mingle with hers as he presses their cheeks together. "Meet your son."

Her eyes slide open and there he is, held up in Doc's hands, barely spanning the length of his forearm. He's quickly wrapped in a blanket and placed on her chest, warm and a little sticky, but she presses her lips to his forehead all the same, marveling at the child, the _life,_ she's created.

"David, look at him."

A tear falls from his check as he kisses her on the forehead.

"He's perfect," David whispers and Emma can't help but agree. "Good job, kid."

The baby's wailing so she holds him closer, pressing his shivering body to the skin of her chest.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers that the nurses have backed off, giving them their moment, before they have to take the baby to get cleaned up. She's grateful, because there are some introductions she needs to make.

"David, this is Henry."

David laughs out something that sounds like a sob and gently runs his fingers over Henry's downy head.

"Nice to meet you, Henry."

"And, Henry, this is your…" she trails off and slowly meets David's gaze, allowing a thousand unsaid things to pass between them.

He's not Henry's father, but he's not just the man who took them in, either. He's so, _so_ much more.

"Henry, this is your David."

And that's it. He's David. He's their David.

The man himself closes his eyes and rests his chin on her shoulder, sighing so deeply, she rises and falls with his breath. She's not sure how long they stay like that – Henry nestled into her chest and Emma nestled into David's – but eventually the nurses take the baby and David eases out from behind her, stretching briefly, before she catches his hand and tugs him close.

This baby is the first thing she's done right and without him by her side, it likely wouldn't have been done at all.

"David. I can't…" she shakes her head because she, the woman with a thousand retorts, has lost her words.

xxxxxx

"I know," he replies, not needing to hear whatever it is she's struggling with.

He should go out and tell Graham and Mary Margaret that everything's okay, but Emma has other ideas as she pulls him down on the edge of the bed again, whispers "thank you" in a tone that "I love you" is usually reserved for, and presses a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

And that – that's when the pain starts.

" _As poor as we are, love is one thing I **can**_ _afford. I will find a way to save this farm."_

" _You didn't see that coming, did you?"_

" _I thought we'd take the scenic route."_

" _You're a girl?"_

" _I have a name, you know."_

" _You'll find me?"  
_

" _Always."_

" _No one's ever been willing to die for me before."_

" _No one you can remember."_

" _The Queen took me to her palace."_

" _But I'm rescuing you."_

" _What did you do to her? What have you done?! Snow!"_

" _You're not coming with me?"_

" _At least let me say goodbye."_

" _We're engaged. I think it's about time you met my mother."_

" _Is there something I need to know?"_

" _I do."_

" _For our child."_

" _What's her name?"_

"Emma."

_"Find us."_

"Yes?" She looks up at him with his eyes and her mother's chin.

It's the first time in his life he's ever uttered his daughter's name, _knowing_ she's his daughter, and he isn't quite sure what's supposed to come next.

_"Mr. Nolan, can we go feed the ducks? Miss Gordon said there are ducks."_

"I took you to the ducks."


	19. Long Roads

Five: the number of seconds it takes him to catalogue every feature his daughter has inherited from him.

Three: the number of breaths he takes before he realizes all the oxygen in the world wouldn't be enough to fill his lungs.

Seven: the number of tears that drop onto Emma's cheek as she stares at him in bewilderment.

Two: the number of repetitions it takes for him to comprehend that he just blurted out "I took you to the ducks."

Four: the number of times he has to say it again in his head before he allows himself to believe that this Emma is _his_ Emma. His Emma twice over, infant and child.

Ten: the amount of fingers and then toes he counts on his grandson.

Ten: the amount he counts on his daughter, as well.

"What?" Emma – _Emma_ – looks equal parts exhausted and confused as she stares at him with a slightly bemused smile.

 _Emma Emma Emma_. He could say it every minute for the rest of his life and it still wouldn't be enough.

_"I'm not sure how this works – I don't know if you allow single foster parents, but if she'll have me, I want her."_

_"You want me?"_

"David? Are you okay?"

He's not sure. His baby just had a baby and suddenly he can't breathe. His body hurts and he grips his shirt over his chest, trying to contain every emotion currently fighting for attention. Is everyone awake? Is he alone in this? Please please don't let him be alone –

" _Emma, I need you tell you something. I will never, **ever** hurt you."_

" _Okay."_

His bones are a second away from shaking to pieces and he's not sure anyone will be there to put him back together once more. His lungs ache and every breath is a battle –

" _You called me 'squirt."_

" _I did. Is that okay?"_

"David?"

_"Your parents must have had a very good reason for leaving you like they did. Now, I don't know them, but I know_ _you._ _Maybe not very well, yet, but enough. And I know that no one could leave you unless absolutely forced."_

_"You think so?"_

_"I know so."_

"David!" Emma now looks panicked and that's the last thing he wanted.

"Just give me a minute," he murmurs, starting for the door and rubbing his hands over his face, realizing with startling clarity that he's missing a very important ring on his fourth finger.

"You're leaving?"

"And coming right back," he responds automatically, thanking his paternal instincts for immediately doling out concern when he himself is on the verge of inconsolable. "Mary Margaret and Graham…" he trails off, thinking of their counterparts, unable to go any farther. But their mere mention seems to be enough for Emma, who nods and gives him a watery smile.

"Hurry back."

The kiss he comes back to place on her forehead is fierce and lingering, as if he could pour decades worth of love into one brush of his lips. But he needs to get out of this room and the sooner the better, because if he doesn't get air, get space, get _answers_ he will pass out in the middle of this delivery room.

His legs thankfully carry him to the door and he manages to grab hold of the handle before they give out entirely. He takes a moment, just a moment to brace himself before turning it, and he finds he can't help but look back over his shoulder at his daughter. His beautiful, strong, stubborn, wonderful half of him.

He _made_ her. And he takes immeasurable pride at being able to lay claim to that rather magnificent feat.

As if sensing his gaze, Emma glances up once more as Henry is returned to her arms, and David stops to memorize this moment; memorize every emotion and every fear that flicks across her face.

"I'm proud of you, squirt." He can barely get the words out, a thousand memories flashing behind his eyelids of a little girl with blonde curls who followed him around wherever he led.

A bit like a duck.

He hangs his head and turns the knob, knowing that one more second in this room will truly be the death of him, and walks briskly into the hall, inhaling sharply as he bends forward and places his hands on his knees. Graham's is the first face he sees, anxiously pacing the hallway and spinning so quickly at the sound of the door, he nearly falls over. David needs a moment to gather himself, to reconcile his best friend with his wife's savior – a man he had only met once.

" _You're not coming with me?"_

Thinking back on it, David wishes he had said something more.

Graham's eyes are getting wider with every moment that David doesn't speak. Finally he breaks and blurts out, "Well?! Is she okay?" causing David's heart to sink.

Not awake then.

"Six pounds, eight ounces, nineteen inches long," he whispers, chest constricting at the utter elation on Graham's face.

"Can I see her?"

David finds himself nodding and the sheriff is off like a shot in the direction of the room, but that's not what has David's attention. No, David's attention is focused solely on the woman walking toward him with a bottle of water in one hand as she nervously bites her nail on the other.

 _Snow._ Thoughts of a wedding ring did absolutely nothing to prepare him for the sight of his wife.

"David!" she calls as she glances up and his heart shatters. She is Snow, but not, because there is no way she'd greet him with any name but 'Charming' on her lips.

She's in his arms a moment later, and he takes a step back to brace himself from the impact as he hikes her further off the ground. He needs this; he needs a lifetime of this. He feels her fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck and her breath is hot against the side of his throat.

"Everyone healthy?"

" _Our daughter just gave birth to our grandson and they're both perfect."_

That's what he wants to say because he should be sharing this moment with his wife, which Mary Margaret Blanchard is, but isn't – so he swallows hard and says, "Perfectly healthy," instead.

"Good," she whispers, tickling the skin under his ear.

He holds her tighter, burying his face in her neck, thrown for a moment by the lack of bountiful curls that used to hide his tears. She feels so familiar – the curve of her lower back that holds his clasped hands perfectly, her fingers tracing his jawline, her chest pressed to his. Its intimacy has his heart in a vise and every moment he stays here is another notch tightened.

It's too much. Too much to have her say "David," but him unable to say, "Snow" in return. To know that the daughter she gave birth to only yesterday it seems, is now an eighteen-year-old woman with a baby of her own. That David spent a few indescribable weeks with her as a child before she was taken away again. That he's spent the last five months sharing a home and all the accoutrements that come with it: banana pancakes, leather jackets, pajamas, _features_.

She has his eyes.

"I have to…" he trails off and breaks away, finding it too difficult to force air into his lungs.

"David?"

"I'll be right back," he croaks, trying desperately not to look at the confusion and hurt on her face as he stumbles down the hall, gaining speed until he turns a corner and smacks right into someone. A familiar someone, who grabs hold of him in an attempt to keep him still.

"Get off!"

"David," August harshly whispers, gripping him around his torso and effectively pinning his arms to his sides.

"Let go, Booth."

"Your highness, _stop_."

…

_Highness._

And stop David does.

xxxxxx

Graham's peering into the mass of blankets and studying the pink face swaddled in their depths with surprising seriousness. His hands are shoved into his back pockets as if he's okay with looking, but not touching, and Emma can't help but bite her lip to hide her smile at the sight.

"Worth the effort, darlin'?" he murmurs, eyebrows raised. 

"Every bit of it," she whispers, staring at the baby in what she's sure is a perpetual state of wonderment. "Do you want to hold him?"

Graham shifts, as if about to finally take his hands out of his pockets, but he freezes a moment later. "Has David held him yet?"

She frowns. "No, not yet."

"Then best not. David should be the first, besides you."

She thinks she loves him a little bit more for that. Nothing romantic – not really. But a deep-seeded affection that makes something warm and fuzzy bloom in her chest whenever she sees him. Definitely not romantic.

Definitely.

"Then you'll be next in line," she says and he smiles at that. She pretends not to notice the way he stares at her staring at the baby.

"I think Operation: Dovetail was a success," he finally says and she blinks at the topic change.

"And what makes you say that?"

Graham smiles conspiratorially and leans in, despite the fact that they're the only ones in the room, save for Henry.

"I'm 99.9% positive that David and Mary Margaret made out when I was in here earlier."

Her jaw drops, because really, he could have picked a better time – but she's also simultaneously elated. They deserve each other. They _need_ each other.

"I guess we'll have to move on to Part B."

"Right you are. I guess we should figure out what Part B is," he replies, scratching the back of his head with a smirk.

"Guess so," she chuckles, sucking in a breath when he stands, and marveling at the fact that she really doesn't want him to go.

"I best go find your wayward David, because I want to hold that little guy sooner rather than later," he says and her heart bursts. "You'll make a great mum, darlin'."

She blames her hormones when a tear splashes on her cheek as she thanks him.

xxxxxx

August exhales audibly as he closes the door to the nearest empty supply closet, trying not to focus on the fact that he just shoved _royalty_ through.

"What is happening?" James – _David –_ is panting and leaning against a shelf containing extra surgical scrubs.

"Emma broke your curse." The answer almost seems too simple. Too easy an explanation to describe the path that got them here.

"Did she break yours too? Why isn't Snow awake? Or Graham? What – "

"I was never cursed," August interrupts and he watches as the blood drains from the prince's face, before it hardens into something August hasn't seen in… well, a long time.

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who's here to help you," he says, holding up his hands.

"But you know who I am."

"I do. Your highness." August gives a little nod and David stares at him for a moment before rubbing his hands over his face.

"How? How did she break it?"

"She loves you." And August watches as his answer knocks the other man silent. "You're the closest thing to a father she's had her entire life. She might not remember that _you_ were the one who took care of her all those years ago, but she remembers being loved. She remembers happiness."

David turns away and August pretends not to notice his shaking shoulders.

"There's a reason she came back to Storybrooke. A reason she found _you_. You were her father before she even knew you were the only one for the job. She kissed you and your curse broke."

David's hand brushes against his cheek, as if feeling for the phantom press of her lips.

"She's my daughter," he says a little wondrously. 

"She is."

"But I look the same."

"And you will, until the curse – _everyone's_ curse – is broken."

David nods, and August appreciates the fact that he's sort of rolling with this even though it's an awful lot to wrap one's mind around.

"I'm not sure I can do this alone," the prince says, in a rare moment of doubt and vulnerability.

And for once, the wooden boy gets to step up to the plate.

"You're not alone."

He places an awkward hand on the man's still-shaking shoulder and squeezes, breathing out a sigh of relief when David offers him a small smile.

"I should call you 'August?"

August nods.

"But that's not your real name."

It's not a question and August doesn't answer it.

"I figured." David stares at nothing in particular and August takes a moment to study him – a prince who's lived decades and yet is not all that much older than August's own 25 years. What must it be like to have experienced so much hope and heartbreak?

August almost wants to never find out. Almost.

"I should get back to Emma," David finally says and his voice catches on her name. August opens the door, allowing David to step through first just in time to hear a woman's voice echo down the hall.

"David?"

The man in question leans against the wall, before sliding to the floor, and August isn't entirely sure why until he gets a good look at her. Oh. Snow White. Her voice alone could level kingdoms let alone their princes.

"She cannot know," he whispers and David nods in response. It's resigned and heartbroken, and August would be lying if he said he didn't feel just a fraction of the other man's pain.

It's his first time laying eyes on Snow White since the day his father put him in a wardrobe with a task and a promise, and now that she's here in front of him, August isn't sure what to do with himself. She was always kind to him. Always had a gift or a treat hiding in one of her pockets on the off chance she saw him around the castle.

And he loved her for that.

She crouches down in front of David, sparing a small smile for August even though she has no idea who he is, and places her hands on David's knees.

"You okay?"

He nods, beyond words now.

"Emma's looking for you. She won't let Graham hold the baby until you do, and Graham's... eager, shall we say," she says with a smirk. 

The ghost of a smile appears on David's face and August marvels at how they bring that out in each other – that bright flash of hope on the darkest of days.

"Can't keep the sheriff waiting, then, can we?" The mask is back – that princely mask that August assumes all royalty are taught, so as to not give away their true feelings.

Because right now, August knows for a fact that the man before him is blissfully overjoyed and yet entirely devastated –

But not a flicker of either appears on his face.

xxxxxx

Henry whimpers as Emma adjusts him, buttoning up her hospital gown and marveling at how she's able to feed another human being when she herself can barely handle the toasting of pop-tarts.

_Knock Knock_

"Come in," she calls, smiling brightly when David's head peeks around the door. "Hey, stranger." Her voice is inviting, but only when he's close enough does she reach out and punch him in the arm. "Where the _hell_ have you been?"

"Ow," he rubs his bicep, but he's looking at her as if for the first time.

"You just delivered a baby," he says softly. "Forgive me for being a little overwhelmed."

"Get in line," she snorts, but her chuckle dies on her lips as he leans forward and presses another kiss to her head.

"Mind if we join you?" Mary Margaret says from the door and Emma beckons her in, followed by Graham.

"Has he held him yet?" Graham asks and Emma rolls her eyes.

"Give him a minute," she responds, looking up at David with questioning eyes and he nods eagerly, so she holds her arms out and he gingerly takes the baby, tucking him into the crook of his elbow.

And Emma sighs, finally feeling like all is _right._

Henry is so tiny in David's arms, barely fitting from palm to elbow, and David is looking down at him like Henry holds all of the answers to life's secrets. It's the way a father should look at their child.

Which is why she's so thrown off guard when he glances up and fixes her with the exact same expression.

"Can, um, can you hand me my bag?" She curses the wobble in her voice, but Mary Margaret hands it to her all the same. She wants to give Henry something of _hers,_ something more personable than the bland pale blue blanket the hospital has wrapped him in.

What she's not expecting, however, is the gasp that comes out of David's mouth when she pulls her baby blanket from the bag and spreads it open, the purple ribbon standing out even more against the white hospital sheets.

"Are you all right?" she asks, but David doesn't speak or even nod; he just stares at the blanket as a thousand things seem to pass across his face. Even Mary Margaret is looking at it oddly and Emma wonders if she's truly losing her mind. But no, Graham seems to be unaffected as he eyes the baby in David's arms like a child who's loaned his favorite toy to someone else.

Finally, David rips his gaze from the white wool, focusing back on her with an intense yet curious look that nearly knocks the wind out of her.

"You found me," he whispers.

"Where did you go?" she replies with a frown, utterly confused. 

He smiles softly, swallowing hard. "Nowhere."

His eyes return to the baby in his arms, but hers stay on him – as if some inexplicable force would take him away if, for a single moment, she looked anywhere else.

xxxxxx

Emma spends two days in the hospital before she's discharged and the drive home is one of the most terrifying of David's life.

He goes 10 miles an hour in a 25 mph zone and checks on the car seat in the rearview mirror roughly every three seconds. Emma's biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, but she doesn't say a word, and for that, David is grateful.

xxxxxx

Once home, it takes them approximately thirteen minutes to break the first toy and another seven to figure out how on earth the so-called 'diaper genie' works.

David spends the following hour checking to make sure that every outlet still has its plastic plug thingy, despite the fact that Henry won't be walking (or even crawling) for months.

Emma loves the overprotectiveness, and yet she still catches him staring at her when he thinks she's not looking in a way that is completely overwhelming. It's like he's just now realizing she's actually here and he can't quite believe it.

"Hey," she says, grabbing his arm on his ninth pass through the living room, checking the childproof locks. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What?" he asks and she knows his tones well enough by now to know that he's thrown.

"I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Henry. Stop looking at us like we're about to disappear. We've been home for barely three hours."

"Right," he says, after a moment's silence. "Right." He gives her a tight smile and places a kiss on Henry's head as he heads off into the bathroom to check the safeties there.

And she watches him go, wondering why she still feels uneasy whenever he leaves the room.

xxxxxx

August reaches up to throw another pebble at the window, but halts when the door opens and David emerges.

"And what would you have done if Emma answered your call?" he asks wryly, coming down the porch steps and meeting August on the sidewalk.

"Run in the other direction."

David laughs and August still gets a little thrill at knowing he made the prince smile. It doesn't last long though and his features sober, fixing August with a piercing gaze.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Sir…" August inhales and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling more like a lost little boy than a 25-year-old man at the moment. "I owe your family a debt I'm not sure I'll ever be able to repay."

David looks at him sharply, eyes narrowing in searched for recognition. "Who are you?"

"That, I think, is a story for another time," he murmurs. He suffers under David's scrutiny for a few moments more, before the prince crosses his arms and turns back to stare at the house, gaze seeming to sweep for work that has to be done.

"So what happens now?" David eventually asks. "We get Emma to break the curse? It was prophesied to break on her 28th birthday. Not her 19th."

August gives a slow shrug. "I honestly don't know if we can break it early."

David is silent, but his stony features give enough away. "We've got a long road ahead of us, don't we."

"Yes, sir. We do." August follows David's gaze up to the second floor window, from which emanates a warm glow. "Are you up for it?"

David's jaw clenches and, for a moment, August sees the Prince in him once more, staring out over his best-laid plans.

"That's my daughter and my grandson up there," he replies, voice thick with conviction. "I'm up for anything."


	20. Ultimatums

She's dreaming of green party hats and cake when she hears it: the low whimper of a baby that steadily grows in pitch. But that can't be, because no babies were invited to her party, just David and Graham and Mary Margaret. She's pretty sure Ruby and Granny are there, too.

But that can't be possible either, because she didn't know David when she was six. She didn't know _any_ of them. And as Emma stands there clutching a pair of wooden swords to her chest, she's nearly positive that she most definitely just turned six.

The whimpering continues, becoming a wail, before Emma is pulled from her dream, blinking slowly and taking in her surroundings. She's in her bedroom in David's house – _their_ house. The wailing has stopped, but it takes another moment for the concept of Henry to enter into her psyche.

She's out of bed quickly but gingerly, her body still recovering from the battle it won. Her toes dig into the carpet as she tiptoes over to the baby's room, but what she sees when she gets there stops her as suddenly as a wall.

David is settling into the wooden rocking chair that Marco custom built for them, Henry in one arm and a bottle in the other. And Emma is pretty sure that her heart has fallen somewhere on the floor near her feet.

"Shhh," he whispers. "None of that. You're gonna wake up your mom."

She steps back and leans against the wall, willing her hormones not to make her burst into tears at what she's hearing.

"She needs her rest," David continues, and she hears the distinct creak of the perfectly carved wood. He's rocking her son as he feeds him at 3:34 in the morning, even though the man worked the night shift last night, just so Emma can catch a few extra hours of sleep.

David Nolan is too decent for his own good.

She rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes, knowing she should be sleeping but unable to move from her spot, glued to every word that's whispered in shared confidence.

"You came early so you're a little small now, but one day, you'll grow up to be big and strong. And when that happens, I'll teach you how to do big boy things. Like sword-fighting and horseback riding."

Emma frowns. When on earth did David become an expert swordsman? Or a horseback rider, for that matter? Her eyes slide shut as her body refuses to comply with her deep desire to hear the rest of this one-sided conversation.

"I'll tell you a secret, kid. You've got your mother's chin..." He trails off and Emma wonders what's so secretive about that, but then he says, "And your grandfather's forehead."

She drifts off, succumbing to dreams of cake and red leather jackets, thinking that something about that sentence is not quite right.

xxxxxx

He places Henry back in his crib, a relatively insignificant moment, but for a father whose child never saw the inside of hers, it's taking every ounce of strength he has not to break down right there in the middle of the nursery.

And the glass mobile over the bed isn't helping matters.

"Sleep well, young prince," David murmurs, brushing his lips across the baby's downy head and grabbing the now empty bottle on his way out.

He doesn't make it very far and it's a near miss when he practically topples forward in an effort to not kick Emma where she's sprawled out on the carpet. He catches himself on the wall, holding his breath as she shifts in her sleep, but she never wakes. Sighing and smiling slightly, he scoops his arms under her knees and back, deftly lifting her into the air. She groans quietly, burying her face into his shoulder, and he inhales sharply.

It's not the first time he's put her to bed, but it's the first time that he, David the shepherd, is tucking in the child a silver necklace once foretold he'd have. The child his mother sacrificed herself for.

It's an oddly wondrous thing to be able to hold one's grandson and one's daughter in the same minute. Thankfully, her covers are still kicked to the foot of the bed and he eases her onto the mattress, pulling the blanket up under her chin.

He could count how many nights she had gone to sleep without someone there to tuck the covers in around her body. He could do the math, if he wanted to. It's a number far greater than he thinks he can handle, so for a moment, he allows himself to remember the nights that he _was_ there. The nights when little feet would pad across the carpet and curl up under his covers in an attempt to hide from the demons in the dark. And he'd pull her closer, whispering words of encouragement as she settled against his side and slumbered once more. Safe in the knowledge that he'd watch over her.

The memory now comes easily, despite the spells that previously locked it away. Anger spikes through him as he gazes at his daughter, his Emma, so like that little girl that came to him in the night. Because one person took her away from him twice, and David will be damned if he lets that happen again.

Regina.

His hands ball into fists and he exhales sharply, but silently cursing her in the middle of the night will do nothing for the situation at hand. His wife is across town, unaware that she made a vow to love him until death do them part. He's held up his end of the bargain by merely surviving. At the very least, he'd like to be given credit. At the most, he'd like to hold her in his arms until the reaper comes to collect his due.

He should go to bed, he really should – the effects of his nightshift are hitting hard – yet he can't tear himself away from the sight of her – the perfect amalgamation of him and Snow – the product of True Love.

"Look what I made, Mother," he whispers into the air and, deep down, he knows somehow she heard him.

He's not sure how much time passes. Enough for light to begin peeking over the trees as he pads back to his room.

It still feels odd to be in this bed when he remembers the feel of the other. Dark oak, miles of bedding, and pillows for days. He made love to his wife in that bed, conceived their daughter in that bed, held Snow's hand as Emma was delivered into this world in that bed. He doesn't miss it, per se, but he misses what it stood for. What it represented.

A marriage, a trust, a love. And now, he's not even sure if the framework still stands. Not sure what has become of their land, of their _home._ But he cannot worry about that home when this one is still hanging very much in the balance.

The bed is hard beneath his back and there is a wedding ring in the bedside drawer that is not his. David Nolan's perhaps, but not Charming's.

He swallows hard as he stares at the ceiling and the pattern the shadows from the trees are casting.

He's not sure he can do this. But he is a deputy. A Prince. A King.

He was never really given any choice in the matter.

xxxxxx

'Morning person' is not the first thing that comes to mind when describing Emma Swan. She knows this, which is why she's truly trying to make an effort not to pass out on the couch as she attempts to burp Henry.

David is still sleeping, and rising before him is definitely a first. Yet Emma magically awoke in her bed, which means someone had to have put her there. She briefly wonders how long he watched over her son before tending to her.

She should do something to thank him, make banana pancakes or something, but frankly, just the _thought_ of cooking is utterly exhausting.

"Come on, kid, burp," she groans, and Henry obliges, much to her relief. "Thank you."

"Just wait – come thirteen, he won't be so quick to comply," David says and Emma squints her eye open to find him leaning against the doorframe, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Morning, sunshine."

He groans, which is usually her response when he offers her the same greeting. My, how the tables have turned.

"Better stop at Granny's on your way into the station."

"Mmm." He nods and heads for the kitchen, narrowly missing the wall on the turn. She hears him rummaging around in the cabinets, banging various pots and pans together, before he calls out, "Pancakes?"

"Oh I knew I loved you," she replies and the clattering abruptly stops. Huh. "David?"

"Sorry." His voice sounds rough, but he clears his throat and bangs another pot. "Banana?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

He chuckles. "Guess not."

She sighs as she settles back into the cushions, watching as Henry grips her shirt in his tiny fist. His eyes slowly blink open and close in that post-food I'm-so-happy coma she envies. She traces his bitty eyebrows before gently bopping him on the nose. He barely stirs, so she runs the pad of her finger over his head, blowing gently on dark hair inherited from his father.

She never thought it would be possible to love so much so quickly. Even David, an easy person to love if there ever was one, took weeks to earn her trust. Though if she's honest with herself, she loved him well before she was able to admit it.

But if she can feel so much happiness from one glance at Henry, what did she lack when her parents looked at her and still decided to let go?

"Hey," David says, and she glances up to find him standing in the doorway, a smudge of flour on his cheek. "You okay?"

She nods, but he knows her too well; she can't lie her way out of this one.

"What's up, squirt?"

She smiles and finds she's kind of warming to the nickname. It's oddly comforting.

But she can't ask him what's so wrong with her – why no one wanted her. She can't ask why he's been acting so weird ever since they brought Henry home from the hospital. It's not a bad weird, but she can't tell him to explain why every time he glances at her, it's as if he's staring at her for the first time.

She can't because she's not sure she's ready for the answer, so instead she voices a particular question that's been bothering her since the moment he uttered it.

"In the hospital, you said you took me to the ducks. What did you mean?" She watches as his face pales and his eyes widen ever so slightly.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say he almost looked afraid. Afraid and yet hopeful.

"Henry," he blurts out. "I meant I'll take you and Henry to the ducks." He shifts his weight and scratches the back of his neck. "Why?"

She shakes her head, feeling like some great revelation is just out of her reach.

"No reason."

xxxxxx

Mary Margaret idly toys with her napkin as Ruby pours her another mug of hot chocolate. It's 7:14 in the morning and she doesn't have to be at school for a while, but David likes to pop in before the early shift and… well. Any excuse to run into him, really.

It's terrifying how badly she misses him – and she only saw him the day before yesterday, when she dropped off dinner knowing neither of them had the energy to cook.

It's terrifying and yet exhilarating, because she's feeling things she thought fate would never allow her to find.

"Nice picture," she warmly says, pointing to the framed photo of Emma holding Henry, with David giving a goofy thumbs-up over her head.

Ruby follows her gaze and chuckles. "Yeah, we couldn't leave without getting a pic of our newest little employee. How are they?"

"Uh, good, I think. I stopped by the other day – "

"I bet you did," Ruby interrupts, raising a suggestive eyebrow and winking. Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, which does nothing to hide her scarlet flush.

She really must work on that.

The bell over the door rings and she knows it's him. Without even turning around, she knows he just walked in. Maybe it's the way the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Maybe it's the way she can smell his faint aftershave, even above the strong scent of coffee and bacon that pervades the diner. Maybe it's just because it's him, and her body reacts like a magnet any time he's within reach.

"Hey," he says, sliding onto the seat next to her. And she smiles, because she's not the slightest bit startled by his appearance.

"Hi." She pushes her mug towards him and he gratefully takes a sip. "You look tired," she whispers, cupping his cheek and running her thumb gently across the dark circles under his eye.

"Yeah, Henry hasn't quite grasped the concept of sleep, yet. We're working on it," he replies, gently pulling out of her grasp.

"Well, he's only five days old. Give it at least eight," she jokes, but the smile slowly fades from her lips because he can't seem to meet her gaze. And he always meets her gaze, holds it, and is the last to break it. "You all right?"

"Of course," is the quick reply, but there's something about it. Something about _him_ that's different.

Gently, she takes his chin and forces their eyes to meet. And she nearly gasps at the combination of longing and loss she sees there.

"You're lying," she murmurs.

"I know," he replies, and for a moment, he looks so broken – so utterly irreparable – that she leans forward, pressing her lips to his as if the mere touch could make him whole once more.

He freezes for a moment before sinking into it, sliding forward on his stool so he's perched on the edge and tugging her closer to him.

She pulls back and he makes a noise in his throat, but when she blinks her eyes open, she notices his are still shut. As if holding onto the moment for as long as humanly possible. And when he does finally look up, she sees more desolation clouding those blue pools than ever before.

"Talk to me." Her hands move to his knees and she grips them tight. "Is it Emma?"

He shakes his head.

"Henry?"

He shakes it again.

"David – " she starts, quieting when Ruby approaches.

"How's the baby?"

"Perfect," David replies with a level of composure he lacked moments before. "The largest coffee you have, Ruby. Please."

"Sure thing." She disappears once more, taking David's calm façade along with her.

Mary Margaret doesn't say a word, just continues rubbing circles on his jean-clad knee, wondering what on earth happened in the past two days. Thinking back on it, though, he was a little distant when she dropped dinner off, but she attributed that to the screaming baby he was holding at the time. Truth be told, she could watch him hold babies every hour of every day until the end of time, but unfortunately, she had parent teacher conferences to get to.

David presses his hands on top of hers, stilling both her movement and her breath. And his gaze catches on her left hand, or more particularly, the ring that resides on her middle finger. He's seen it before. Heck, he's _held_ it before – when she gave it to him for safe keeping while she insisted on washing the dishes. But now, he's staring at it as if it's the most precious jewel in the world.

"Sn – Mary Margaret, I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," she replies and he smiles a smile that's more heartbreak than happiness.

"If I seem… different… or something, right now, I need you to bear with me. I meant what I said. That spot has always been yours. For longer than you realize."

And then he takes her hands and places a kiss on each of her palms; and the diner fades away as she stares at him studying the grooves of her skin.

"I'll take it." And even if he hadn't offered it again, she'd fight for it.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He smiles through watery eyes as she runs her thumb across his knuckles.

Through some sort of bone-deep truth, she knows that her place is at his side.

And for the first time in her life, she thinks she's finally found something worth fighting for.

xxxxxx

Regina's coffee is bitter in her mouth as she watches the sappy exchange. She can't hear what's being said but the body language is enough to make her push her apple pancakes away with disgust.

It was easy to make Emma Swan disappear when she was a child. A filed complaint and a magical reboot were all she needed to ensure the safety of her curse. What she didn't plan on, however, was for Emma to find her way back to Storybrooke. Or, more importantly, to _him._

It's dumb luck that she seems not to remember her prior stay, but that won't last. Regina's seen flickers of familiarity cross the girl's face and it's only a matter of time before the walls come down. Before the past she's tried so hard to suppress comes back.

She waited to act because Emma was no longer only Emma. She was Emma and a child – and though Regina is considered by many to be a heartless human being, she does indeed have a steady beat in her chest.

But the child is no longer a part of Emma, and if the sight before her is anything to go by, Regina might have let things get a little too out of hand.

It's one thing for Charming to care for Emma. It's entirely another for Snow White to enter the picture.

Yes, Regina thinks. Something might have to be done.

And so involved is she in her machinations that she never notices the man watching her carefully from the booth in the corner. The man with determination in his eyes and regret on his face, as he zips up his leather jacket and slips out the back door.

xxxxxx

Graham tucks the stuffed wolf under his arm as he makes his way up David's front porch and rings the bell.

"Just a second!" Emma's voice calls out and Graham hears the telltale thump of her running around the house, making him briefly reconsider his decision to come. But before he can second guess himself too much, the door swings open, revealing Emma in all her untamed glory. Her hair is up in a messy bun, she's wearing one of David's flannel shirts, and her eyes have a wild look about them, like an animal caught in a trap.

"Graham?"

"Uh, hi." He smiles and holds up the stuffed wolf. "This is what godfathers do, right? Bring toys and give the kid chocolate before dinner?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I think he's little too young for chocolate."

"Hence the wolf," he replies, holding it up again proudly.

She chuckles and backs up, allowing him to step through into the foyer and survey the wreckage the little infant has caused. A basket full of dirty clothes, baby and adult alike, an open pack of diapers, a few bottles…

Graham chuckles that David's usually tidy home now resembles his own man cave.

"So what's up? Other than the wolf," she says, gesturing to the toy.

"Oh right." He passes it over and shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I heard that mums are supposed to sleep when the baby sleeps, but the baby doesn't always offer Mum the same courtesy. So I thought I'd come take him off your hands for a bit so you could rest. Or something," he finishes after a moment's pause.

She's looking at him like he's grown another head, which isn't exactly instilling much confidence in him.

"Look, I know I'm no one's first choice for babysitter, but it's either come hang out with you two or watch the Red Sox lose to the Yankees, and frankly I don't think I can take that kind of punishment. Again."

It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. He'd get more enjoyment from a baby spitting up on him than downing a case of beer. And suddenly, he has a groundbreaking thought: is this what growing up is like?

Emma seems to be regarding him curiously, before she finally smiles and gently shoves him into the living room.

"I would kill for a hot shower. Can I trust you alone with him for fifteen minutes?"

"Hell, you can make it twenty," he cheekily responds and she rolls her eyes.

"He's pretty content to just lie there and stare at the ceiling, but a few funny faces couldn't hurt."

Graham looks over to where Henry is lying on a blanket spread out on the floor. "Funny faces, got it."

He's giving off an air of confidence, but the moment she ascends the stairs, he stares at Henry with something akin to dread.

"Okay… you and me, kid," Graham mutters as he eases himself down to the floor and peers at the baby. "Don't… you know, make me look bad. No screaming, no projectile vomiting. Just calm, cool…" he flicks the television on, "baseball."

Emma comes down eighteen minutes later to find Graham on the couch with Henry in one arm and a bowl of popcorn in the other, mid-triple play. "No no no! Slide slide slide!"

"I thought you didn't want to see the Red Sox lose?"

Graham smacks his forehead and groans as the inning ends. "Gotta teach Henry America's favorite pastime."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "You're not American."

Graham waves his hand. "Technicalities."

She pads into the living room and takes a seat on the couch next to him, reaching over and stealing a handful of popcorn.

"So who's winning?" she asks with a sly smile.

"You don't want to know," he mutters. 

He's not sure if she's even into sports, but he stays by her side until the seventh inning, when she promptly passes out with her feet on his lap. He tells himself that he doesn't spend the remainder of the game focused more on her than on the score, but he's lying.

And when David comes home, eyeing the scene with no small amount of mirth, Graham denies that the feeling that settles into his gut is anything remotely like guilt.

xxxxxx

David is stirring chili over the stove when he hears Emma pad in behind him.

"When did you get home?" she croaks.

"About an hour ago," he replies, shifting Henry on his shoulder. The baby is small enough to hold with one hand and David can't help sneaking a whiff of his scent every couple of seconds, letting his nose brush against Henry's soft head.

"You've gotten good at that," she says, taking a seat at the table and he turns, noting she looks significantly more rested than she did when he left for the station. He's grateful to Graham for that.

"At what?"

"Multitasking."

"Ah." He glances at the baby and chuckles. "It helps that he's portable."

"Mm. Smells good."

"Well, I made enough for a small army, so I hope you're hungry."

"Starved," she replies, and he's never felt his split personalities more than he does in this moment.

He's cooking using knowledge that David Nolan learned, yet he's also acutely aware that his grandson is in his arms, and his daughter is just steps away. It's strange to feel two sides fighting for dominance, and he hopes it's only a matter of time before the prince and the mere mortal learn how to coexist. Because at the moment, it's incredibly confusing. He remembers fighting with a sword to get her to safety, but he also remembers her unwrapping her own pair of swords on a birthday whose ending was both abrupt and unbearable.

"Can you taste this? Let me know if it needs more cumin," he gruffly says, attempting to root himself in the present, though still haunted by the past.

"Uh huh," she replies, but she sounds distant – distracted – and he turns to find her studying a folder that had been sitting on the table. It's not the only thing that's there either – a small bag and a few clothing items reside on the chairs as well.

"What's all that?" he asks. 

"I cleaned out my car. This," she holds up the folder, "is Henry's birth certificate."

"Oh." He isn't quite sure what else to say. Emma didn't let anyone see the certificate, and to this day he's never asked who Henry's father is.

He's not entirely sure he wants to know.

"I need you to look at this for a moment," she says, pushing the folder towards him and he eyes it warily, before shifting Henry and brushing his free hand on the towel slung over his other shoulder.

He briefly reads _Father: Neal Cassidy_ but that's not what's holding his gaze. No, his gaze is glued to Henry's name, and more importantly, what comes after it.

_Henry David Swan_

Three words. Five syllables. A seven-pound baby who's managed to take his heart and run with it.

"Emma…"

"Is it okay? I probably should have asked, but I wanted to and it seemed like the least I could – " she's interrupted when he kneels down beside her and pulls her into the side of his body that Henry isn't occupying.

"It's perfect," he whispers, ignoring the salty tears staining his lips. "It's beyond perfect."

And because she's given him this, he doesn't care who Neal Cassidy is. He doesn't care that he's having a slight identity crisis. He doesn't care that he's too young to be a grandfather, or that he has an insurmountable task ahead of him.

His grandson shares his name and everything else seems insignificant in comparison.

"Thank you," he finally says, pressing a firm kiss to her head. "Thank you so much."

She chuckles as she pulls away, wiping at her own eyes. "David, look what you've done," she says, gesturing to the chaos around them. "You took me – _us –_ in. You gave us a home. I wish I could give you more than just a middle name, but right now it's all I have."

And then she says something that would have brought him to his knees, had he not already been on them.

"He's as much yours as he is mine."

And it takes all of David's strength not to reply, _"I can lay as much claim to you as him."_ But he doesn't, because she's not ready for that yet.

A dark part of him wonders if she'll ever be ready for it.

He places another kiss on her head, the only way he knows how to show his gratitude, and returns to the chili, hoping that his minor emotional meltdown hasn't burned the tomatoes.

"The kid's lucky, I guess," she begins. "I don't even know what my middle name is."

"Ruth," he blurts out without thinking and, _dammit,_ _Charming_. He closes his eyes and bites his tongue, relishing the pain as punishment for his stupidity.

"Ruth? Did you just pull that out of the hat?" she chuckles and he shrugs his tense shoulders. 

"Guess so."

She looks thoughtful and David can see his mother in her calculating features. It's the same look she wore while trying to haggle the grain merchant, he remembers with a pang.

"Ruth," she repeats, trying it out on her tongue. "I kinda like it."

"Then it's yours," he says softly, not bothering to tell her that she's owned it for the past eighteen years.

He continues cooking, telling himself it's the onions that are making his eyes sting, but his attempt to set the table is thwarted as Emma dumps out a small bag of splintered wood where their plates should go.

"What on earth is this?" he asks, as he places Henry in his carrier.

"My sword," she quietly replies and he freezes.

"But you said – "

"I said I broke it. I never said I didn't keep the pieces."

Oh.

 _Oh._ The sword whose brother resides in his closet. The swords Mary Margaret gave to Emma on her sixth birthday. The sword she asked him to keep, so one day, he could teach her to fight.

He excuses himself and it's only when he reaches the bathroom that the first sob escapes his lips.

xxxxxx

Emma wakes the next morning to find a package on the kitchen table, wrapped rudimentarily in the comics section of the newspaper. A note is attached, but in typical Emma fashion, she heads straight for the gift first.

Tearing it open, a piece of wood falls into her hand, its seams glued together with all the care and precision of an expert surgeon.

She traces the sword's contours, breath hitching every time she gets to a part he's painstakingly pieced together. And only after a full minute of staring does she unfold the note accompanying it.

_For Henry._

xxxxxx

The air is bitter for early fall and David wraps his jacket tighter around his torso, sipping coffee from the tumbler as he makes his way down to the docks. He spots the motorcycle before its owner, but sure enough, he eventually sees August sitting on the bench opposite the cannary, tapping out a rhythm with his boots on the cold, cement ground.

"Got your note," David says as he approaches, holding up the piece of paper he found tucked into that morning's newspaper. "Risky business, assuming Emma wouldn't pick it up first."

August barks out a laugh. "Since when has Emma been able to string together a coherent sentence first thing in the morning, let alone open the paper and take in the headlines?"

David cocks his head, conceding that the kid has a fair point, yet his eyes narrow and his shoulders tense. "And how do you know Emma's not a morning person?"

August raises an eyebrow. "Could it be the oh-so-cheerful greeting I used to get at Granny's at 6:45am?"

David stares at him for a moment more, hoping the ferocity of his gaze is enough of a threat, but it's true, Emma has never been her most charming before at least 10am.

"So what is it?" David asks, cutting right to the chase. A leaden weight has been in his gut ever since he got August's message ( _Must talk. Docks. 8:15._ _– A)_ and frankly he'd just like to get this over with.

But the pained look that passes across August's face tells David he's not going like whatever the boy has in store for him.

"I was in the diner yesterday when you were there with Mary Margaret."

David waits, expecting more, but nothing comes. "So?"

"Regina was there."

Oh.

"She saw you."

 _Damn_. David hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I just went there for coffee, I'll be more careful next time – "

"Your highness," August begins, refusing to meet his gaze, "there can't be a next time."

And suddenly, everything stops: the seagulls, the wind, the coffee mug tumbling from his hand. Everything stalls and it's so so _silent_.

"Excuse me?"

"You can't see her. Mary Margaret – you can't see her anymore." August looks like the words are bile in his mouth but David can't care about that when his heart has plummeted to his feet. When the man – the _boy_ – in front of him is telling him he cannot see the woman who is the very breath in his lungs.

"Your highness – "

"Don't," he snaps. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not!"

He stands and begins pacing like a prizefighter who'd like nothing more than to put a hole in the concrete wall behind them.

"If Regina thinks you're close to becoming anything remotely like what you were before, she will do something to separate you."

"Then I'll take my chances!" he snarls.

"With what?!" August yells. "What do you have to bargain with? Emma's life? Henry's?"

" _Don't._ "

"David, she will kill you! Don't act like she hasn't tried to before!"

And that's what makes him stop wearing a hole in the asphalt – not a fear for his own life, but the terrifying thought of what would happen to Emma and Henry if he were to die.

August must sense his dilemma because his tone softens. "This isn't for forever. Just until we make Emma believe."

David scoffs, but it comes out more strangled than sarcastic. "The curse can't break until she's 28."

"The _curse_ can't break. That doesn't mean we can't make Emma see who you truly are." The boy hesitates before placing a hand on David's shoulder and both parties seem surprised when he doesn't shrug it off. "We need time. You staying away from Mary Margaret will give us just a bit more of it."

David nods and swallows hard. "You realize what you're asking of me."

"Yes, sir."

"You're asking me to break my wife's heart. And in turn, my own."

"I know, sir." 

David shakes his head. "You don't know – "

"Yes I do – "

"No, you don't!" David breaks, the task before him too daunting for even the bravest of men. "You won't even tell me who you are! You won't – "

"I'm sorry!" is August's anguished reply and the response pulls David up short.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He's shaking his head, no longer the voice of reason as he harshly runs his fingers through his hair.

"For what?"

August scrubs his hands over his face, palms coming away wet. "I was supposed to protect her and I failed. I made a promise and I broke it."

David is feeling many things, most of which he can't decipher, yet he still manages to ask, "What are you talking about?"

"I wasn't selfless, brave, and true," August quietly confides.

It takes a moment, then two, for the thoughts running through his head to form some sort of coherence. But when they do, his heart constricts. Painfully.

"Pinocchio?" David whispers.

August nods.

"But how…" he begins, knowing every word brings him closer to an answer he doesn't want to know. "… How are you here?"


End file.
